


Your best mistakes

by lesbleusthroughandthrough



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-02 14:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4063789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbleusthroughandthrough/pseuds/lesbleusthroughandthrough
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He comes in twice a day, and every time he flirts ridiculously with you. Come <em>on </em>, Philippe. It has been a <em>month</em>.”<br/>-<br/>My summer job is working at a coffee shop and this cutie comes in everyday so one day I finally write my number on their drink but then YOU grab the cup by accident and when you call me I don’t know how to turn you down so I end up going on a date with you but wow actually you’re hotter than my original crush so it worked out well AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And, well. It was just one date

**Author's Note:**

> So basically this is an AU of [my AU](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3943522). 
> 
> Very very very much a work in progress.  
> Built up from repeatedly listening to "Life of the Party" by Shawn Mendes (from whence I stole the title).
> 
> Also I have no idea why I keep putting poor Lovren in this position. But- have you seen him??

Nobody was perkier than Philippe at eight a.m. on a Monday. And certainly not Jordan Henderson, who had to make the choice every morning of brewing exemplary coffee or stringing an entire sentence together.

This was why Philippe worked the till. Probably best that Jordan's social interactions were limited.

“He’s coming, Hendo!” Philippe hissed, kicking his shift partner awake. “ _Hendo_!”

Jordan groaned. How he could replicate the despair in that noise every single morning was something that Philippe would maybe never understand.

Either way, he successfully masked his bubbling excitement as the morning hoard of customers thinned and thinned and then suddenly, _he_ was there, right in front of Philippe at the counter.

“Hi, Dejan,” he started brightly.

“Heya, Philippe,” the most beautiful human in Philippe’s universe replied.

“The usual?” Philippe was already lifting the _Grande_ -sized Styrofoam cup from the stack.

“You know me better than I know myself,” Dejan said, smiling in his trademark celestial manner. “Latte to go, please.”

Jordan gave Philippe a meaningful look, tilting his head toward Dejan when he tugged the cup from Philippe’s hands.

Philippe chose to ignore him, turning back to Dejan with his hand still outstretched.

Dejan pressed the change for the drink in to his hand, folding Philippe’s fingers down over his palm. He leaned forward. “Keep the change,” he whispered, winking.

“Oh,” Philippe said, taken aback. “Tips go in our tip jar and are, uh- divided-“

“No, no,” Dejan shook his head. His small swirl of hair that fell down over his forehead bounced softly, his eyes were lovely chocolate buttons. “For you, yeah?” He squeezed Philippe’s hand, and straightened up again.

Philippe was bright, bright red.

“Thanks,” he squeaked.

“See you later,” Dejan said, smiling down at him, and he moved out of the way for the next customer.

It took Philippe three, long seconds to process what had happened before he gathered enough strength to sort the change in to the till. The tip was definitely more than twenty percent. And Philippe’s strong point wasn’t even math.

He hesitated before adding it to the jar anyway.

He didn’t deserve the credit: it was Jordan who made the coffee after all.

“Look,” Jordan said, about half an hour later when the trickle of people coming through the door had plugged to a stop and it was only them left in the shop. Well. Themselves and Adam, but Philippe didn’t count Adam as a person most of the time. He was their resident wannabe-writer who normally held a corner table hostage for the day while they conveyorbelt-ed espressos in his direction, and was really more of an ornament. “He comes in twice a day, and every time he flirts ridiculously with you. Come _on_ , Philippe. It has been a _month_.”

“ _Sure_ , whatever,” Philippe wiped his hands on his apron before he took the cappuccino that Jordan had whipped up for him. Jordan himself stuck to his usual Americano, which Philippe found perplexing: he could create the most complicated of drinks in seconds, but was annoyingly loyal to black coffee: as though that wasn’t just something that he couldn’t make at home.

“That was sarcastic,” he added after several seconds, when Jordan frowned. “Sorry. I forgot your sarcasm function doesn’t kick in until half eleven.” He took a sip, and instantly felt more alert.

“Please,” Adam said, leaning forward on his bar stool to place his elbow on the counter. “Ask him out before you finish up for the summer. It could be such a beautiful love story.” His eyes glazed over for a second, and then he went back to furiously tapping at his keyboard.

Jordan and Philippe sighed, albeit for probably different reasons.

“Nobody asked you,” Jordan said, giving Adam a pointed look.

“I just have to wait another few months,” Philippe looked out at the morning sunshine streaming in through the large glass front of the shop; sunshine he was not, and would spend the majority of his summer not being in. “And then I’ll be able to fund my Applied Psychology masters in the fall, and I’ll be so busy that I won’t be able to think about how frustratingly,” he huffed, “beautiful he is.”

“You might change your mind,” Jordan said, draining his cup. “About leaving. If you two end up going out. Love is funny like that.”

“No offence,” Philippe bent over to stretch across the counter beside the till, to stretch his spine out and feel it click comfortably back in to place after a hunched morning. “But I don’t know how I’d feel about working in a coffee shop for the rest of my life.”

“Hey!” Adam called.

“You,” Jordan addressed him with a stern finger at the forefront of his favourite stony glare. “Do not _work_ in a coffee shop. You _do your work_ in a coffee shop.”

“And what work, Ads,” Philippe added, curling back up straight. “What exactly have you written since you got here?”

Adam sniffed. “Musings,” he said proudly, and went back to his typing.

Jordan sighed. But Philippe got the feeling that he considered Adam as part of the furniture too; in the way that someone would grow attached to an old, very comfortable but tastelessly upholstered three piece suite.

“Seriously, Philippe,” he picked up a tray to do a sweep of the tables and the reminder of the eat-in breakfast cutlery. “He’ll be back at half five, and you’re better looking that you give yourself credit for. Just ask him out.”

Philippe swirled foam around the bottom of his cup.

“How,” he said, clearing his throat. “Like I’m not saying I will. I _won’t_. But- saying I did: how would I even ask him out?”

Jordan shrugged. “I dunno,” he nodded back at Adam, absorbed in his work. And interestingly; sucking on the end of a ballpoint pen, despite the fact that he seemed to always type up his thoughts. “Ask the romantic.”

* * *

 

However, by five Philippe had a plan. And by half five, he had thought it through and shook his nerves out enough times to make it happen.

He waited, and waited, only half paying attention and smiling mechanically as he served; watching the left corner of the window where, at a quarter to six, Dejan would appear; surrounded by who Philippe had solidly decided were other guys from his office: they all wore the same suits. Actually; the snappiness of their dress was the only indication that they worked together. Philippe decided that, should this work out: that would be the first question he would ask Dejan. What it was exactly that he did for a living.

He twisted to look behind the guy he was serving: who was annoyingly broad-shouldered, Philippe had to crane his neck.

“Hey!” he said, smiling. “The usual?”

Dejan looked up, caught his eye and smiled back. And Philippe melted. He may or may not have made a small satisfied sound.

“Excuse me?”

The customer in front of Philippe waved at him to get his attention back. “Excuse me,” he said again, “but I’m in a hurry.”

Ordinarily Philippe would have considered it an obnoxious gesture- in the same way that high-and-mighty people clicked their fingers to summon waiters- but he could probably admit that in this instance it was warranted.

“Sorry,” he apologised hastily, grabbing a cup. “Grande flat white to go, was it?”

The customer seemed surprised, blinking the frown from between his eyebrows. “Yeah,” he said, now raising them in admiration. Or possibly amusement. “Thanks.”

Philippe, relieved at that save, scribbled the details quickly on to the cup; trying to stop his hands from shaking as he caught Dejan’s eye again, and passed it along to Jordan.

“Hey,” Dejan and his chubby cherub cheeks were next.

“Latte to go?”

“Of course.” Dammit. Dammit he was _so beautiful_.

Dejan smiled. Philippe managed to return it weakly; and quickly scribbled a _Call me_ , hastily followed by his number, the figures unsteady and spiked, he handed it to Jordan while Dejan was searching for his wallet in the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

Jordan coughed violently, making him turn.

 _Really_? Jordan’s eyebrows said.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Adam lean forward in his seat; alerted by Jordon’s faux illness.

 _Way to keep it on the down low_ , Philippe cursed silently, scowling the two of them back to work. Adam looked like this was the most exciting thing to have ever happened to them. Jordan looked like, that just on the whole, this was a terrible idea. But he looked like that an awful lot.

Philippe quickly filled out the rest of the orders for Dejan’s other work buddies, and then moved over to the other side of the coffee machine to help Jordan out, steaming the foam under the wand and folding it in to the two espresso shots, capping them carefully and making sure to catch Dejan’s eye before placing them down on the end of the counter. He caught Dejan’s eye and nodded before calling out the drinks, and then he turned back to helping Jordan finish up the order. To be all like, nonchalant and cool.

“Hey,” Adam said suddenly. “Uh, Philippe?”

Philippe gave him the briefest of side glances to let him know that he was listening. He gathered the empty pitchers in his arms and cradled them over to the sink.

Adam swallowed nervously, and his eyes darted over to where Dejan and his friends were moving in a boisterous group towards the door. He mumbled something.

“ _What_ , Adam?”

“Uh,” Adam started. “Philippe… I. Hum. Erm. I don’t think the guy whom you wanted to take the cup, took the cup.”

“What?” Jordan snapped, as Philippe promptly dropped all of the metallic utensils with a clatter in to the sink.

“The wrong guy,” Adam managed, his hand over his mouth as Philippe’s flew back in to his hair when he spun around to look out the door. “The wrong guy took the cup.”

He looked somewhere between shocked and dying of vicious internal laughter, and Philippe decided he’d kill him after his more immediate problems were resolved.

Dejan and his friends were shuffling slowly through the door, and just before he left he turned and waved back at Philippe behind the counter. Then he lifted his cup and drank from it.

Philippe’s number was not on the cup.

In the time it took for Jordan to ask, “then who did?”; Philippe’s neck had nearly snapped at the speed it turned to search for the other guy who had ordered a flat white, and he found him; he’d paused several steps down the street on the other side of the door, just at the edge of the window. Philippe saw him take a step backwards towards the door, turn his head and then squint at the counter.

Philippe had already dropped to his knees behind the till.

“ _Did he see me_?” he hissed.

“Who?” Jordan asked.

“ _The other guy_ ,” Philippe almost wailed. “The other guy with _Dejan’s_ cup.”

“Yeah,” Adam said, and Philippe could practically hear Jordan glaring at him. “He saw you.”

Philippe clunked his forehead against the cupboard door on the other side of the counter and swallowed a very long string of swear words.

“He’s going to know it’s not for him,” Jordan reassured. “You barely looked at him the whole time he was in the shop.”

“He’s cute, though,” Adam was saying. This time it was Philippe’s turn to glare at him. “ _What_? He _is_. Look for yourself.”

Philippe screamed internally and slowly peeked over the top of the counter.

He caught a glimpse of dark hair, almost beard and a navy suit before he ducked back again.

“ _Adam_ ,” he snarled. “You never said he was _looking_.” He rubbed his eyes to try and clear the stain of heavy amber from his corneas as Flat White’s eyes had bored in to him.

“To be fair to Adam,” Jordan said, patting the top of Philippe’s head as he slowly curled into a ball of despair on the tiles, “you never asked if he was looking.”

“This is a disaster,” Philippe whimpered.

“It was a terrible idea,” Jordan said, folding his arms now and leaning his back to the counter beside him, looking almost sympathetic. “To write your number on the cup. It could have gone wrong in so many other ways.”

“It was very romantic,” Adam pointed out.

“But clearly also very ineffective.” Jordan shot him a look.

Philippe groaned. “Is he gone?”

Jordan looked over his shoulder for a long minute. “He’s still looking in the window, he looks pretty confused.”

“I don’t blame him; you look like you’re having a conversation with the floor.”

“Your observations are as useful as ever, Adam.”

“ _Hendo_ ,” Philippe crawled over and tugged at the leg of his trousers. “Help me.”

“Philippe. Please chill.” Adam had slowly gone back to typing, at now what appeared to be his permanent home on one of the high stools at the end of the counter.

“You know you need to chill when Adam is telling you to. The guy probably doesn’t even know who he’s calling.”

Philippe sighed. But he didn’t feel too relieved.

“Why can’t nice things happen to me,” he moaned. He reached up to take Jordan’s offered hand and swayed back upright. “Cute guy flirts with me at work, and somehow I manage to do the opposite of asking him out.”

“Cheer up,” Jordan said, sounding more annoyed than enthusiastic. “We’ll work on a fool-proof plan for you to nab Dejan, if that’s what you really want.”

“What do I do?” Philippe asked, turning on the sink and deciding to drown his sorrows in elbow-deep suds when he scrubbed their best mugs clean again. “If the other dude calls?”

“You say it was a mistake, you apologise-“

“You ask him out and raise beautiful, ebony-haired babies,” Adam interrupted. Philippe looked around just in time to see Jordan’s hand connect with the back of Adam’s head. “Ow! _What_?” Adam rubbed at the sore patch and scowled. “I’m sorry, but the other guy was _smoking_ hot.”

“Adam,” Philippe begged. “ _Never_ say ‘smoking hot’ ever again.”

He honestly couldn’t remember: his memory of the guy had already faded to a broad-shouldered navy blazer and that he was a good half-foot taller than Philippe. But his bad mood dissipated as Jordan looked unbelievably pleased with Adam’s reaction.

“If he calls, you should pass him on to Adam,” Jordan said, giving Philippe the slyest of winks.

“ _If_ he calls.”

“Relax,” Jordan’s head turned when the door of the coffee shop swung open again, announcing the arrival of a new string of customers. “He’s not going to call you.”

* * *

 

Philippe wasn’t expecting his right thigh to start vibrating as violently as it did during dinner; he dropped his fork into his potatoes and yelped.

“Alright?” Leandro asked, raising his hand to slap Philippe on the back.

Philippe had started to cough at the sudden amount of excess air in his chest but he waved his brother’s hand away. His hand dove in to his pocket and he frowned at the unsaved number that came up on his phone.

“Uh,” he said out loud.

“Philippe,” he heard his mother say, and something told him it wasn’t the first time. He looked up and his parents’ talks of anti-social behaviour at the dinner table came flooding back to him.

“Uh,” he said again. “I’d better take this. I don’t know who it is?” He held it up for his parents, and then his brother to prove his point. “Okay?”

His parents looked at each other and Philippe sighed and got up anyway. He’d been home from university all of three weeks, had spent most of it at work and already the strain of being at home was getting to him.

He loved his parents. He did. But suddenly being lifted of all those college freedoms was _weird_.

By the time he’d slid open the glass door out on to the porch, he had decided that this was probably Neymar with yet another new phone. His roommate last semester went through phones like underwear, and each met a more creative fate than the last.

The phones. Not the underwear.

“Yo,” he said in to the mouthpiece, wrapping his cardigan around him tight. The complete lack of clouds in the tentative early summer weather brought a cruel chill to the evenings.

“Hello?” A voice that was not Neymar’s said at the other end of the line. For a start, it was a good deal silkier, and Neymar never spoke at such a low octave. Decibel, even.

“Uh,” Philippe said. _A wrong number_. Whatever. He was sure he probably could have otherwise ignited his parents’ acrimony purely due to the fact that his professionally successful brother was there. “Who is this?”

“Yeah,” the voice said smoothly. “You wrote this number on my coffee this morning, with instructions to call it.”

Philippe’s stomach flipped. Backwards. And missed the crash mat.

He swore in to his sleeve.

_‘He’s not going to call’. Jordan Henderson doesn’t know shit._

“Yeah, uh,” _fuck. Fuck. Fuck!_ “I probably did. I mean. I think I did.” He swallowed. “I did.” _‘Yeah. That was a mistake. Sorry for your trouble’._

“Good,” the voice said. “That could have been awkward.”

 _Not as awkward as this is about to get_ , _buddy_.

Silence fell down the line.

 _What am I meant to say_ now _?_ Philippe wondered, absently chewing on his cuff.

“Erm,” he began. “Listen-“

“My name is Emre,” the voice said. Well. Emre said. “And I normally finish before six on week days. If you. If you want to meet up.”

 _No_ , Philippe thought. “Okay,” Philippe said.

_What?_

Emre coughed, and Philippe realised that had been his cue.

_Why does he sound like he’s smiling?_

_This is not meant to end in a date. This is absolutely not meant to end in a date. This is meant to end in “sorry but this whole thing was an accident”._

“Do you like Vietnamese food?” he blurted out. Shocked at his own bold move, he swore silently and kicked at the edge of the patio, mouth spreading in to a silent scream when one of his toes possibly broke.

There was silence while he managed to pull himself together, and he wondered if Emre was waiting for him to continue.

“Because there’s this,” _shit! Ow!_ “place not far from where I work, and I’m closing up tomorrow- at seven- so-“ he swore internally in every single language he could think of, and sat down on the edge of the porch to tug his shoe off and rub at his toe.

 _Emre_ _has such a nice voice_ , he thought. _It would be really good for late-night radio._

“Tomorrow?” Emre asked, surprised.

Shoot. Maybe that _was_ a bit eager. After all, drinks was normally first date protocol.

But God, if this went terribly Philippe would rather he was burying his face in over-cilathro-ed noodle soup than be anywhere near alcohol.

The problem was, Philippe wasn’t even eager? He literally just wanted to lose this guy as fast as he could. But, Philippe’s first reaction in totally surprising social situations was absolute politeness; no matter how hard he had tried to grow a backbone.

Memories of Adam expressing Emre’s plainly eye-pleasing characteristics did leave him curious though. Although, Adam hit on most things that breathed; and mostly by accident.

“Because he looks like a huge puppy,” Jordan had explained, when they’d traded theories on this. “If you liked dogs at all and came in to this shop you’d just want to coddle him.”

Philippe had drawn the conclusion from this conversation that Jordan was not all that much of a dog person.

He may just have to take Adam’s word for this, though; because a faceless, tall and blazered person who ordered flat whites was not much to go on.

Okay, well now he could add a really good radio voice to things he knew about him.

And, well. It was just one date. If he was truly a creep Philippe never had to see him again. What did he have to lose?

“Yeah,” he said. “Why not tomorrow?”


	2. "It is so most definitely not a date."

“ _Adam_ ,” Jordan said, “it’s _not funny_.”

Philippe glowered at Adam in agreement as he wiped an actual tear of mirth from under his eye. He couldn’t tell if Jordan found it just as thigh-slappingly hilarious, it was hard to tell from his tone; but he hadn’t turned around from the coffee machine for a good five minutes.

“Look,” he said, carefully. “You guys spend all your time complaining that I never have a life outside work, but when I find something to do that isn’t sitting at home you _still_ aren’t happy.”

“Small difference,” Jordan said, still with his back to him. “You can’t accidentally go on a date with Grand Theft Auto.”

Philippe sniffed.

“It is so very definitely not a date. Not even an accidental one.”

Adam was laughing so hard that his face had turned a nasty shade of beetroot.

“You’re going to dinner with him,” Jordan said, giving the machine a final wipe and obviously finding no further reasons to delay the inevitable, and turning around.

“Platonically,” Philippe said, wishing he could use the disinfectant he was employing so generously on the tables to wipe the smirk from Jordan’s face. “If I wanted something romantic, I wouldn’t have gone for Vietnamese. Right?” Like this wasn’t the question he’d been asking himself all last night.

“It’s not the main course, Philippe,” Adam called. Or rather, choked. “It’s what’s for dessert!”

Jordan clicked his tongue.

“That was terrible, Adam.”

“Adam,” Philippe spread his arms out in prayer, “ _please_.”

Adam shoved his hand over his mouth to quieten his giggles. Like it helped; his eyes were all crinkly and shiny and so annoyingly _entertained_.

“Look,” Jordan explained, far too deadpan. “Philippe is not a Sex On The First Date kind of guy.” He caught Philippe’s eye- more like noticed his glare- and his resolve wobbled. “Are you, Philippe?” Then he snorted and fell in to helpless laughter. Adam tapped him on the shoulder and through their high pitched giggling they managed to somehow coordinate the most pathetic high-five that Philippe had ever seen in his life.

“Tonight I’m not an _anything_ on the first date kind of guy,” Philippe snarled. “Because this is not an actual date.” He looked up at the clock above the counter and sighed. Mere hours remained between now, the after lunch lull; and closing time. “If anything, it’s a blind date,” he admitted, “because if I couldn’t remember what he looked like yesterday, I remember even less now.”

What Philippe remembered was this: broad shoulders. Maybe framed with some sort of celestial glow. But if he’d looked the guy in the face and that was all that came to mind, this didn’t bode well.

This was all just such a mess.

“ _You_ guys saw him,” he pointed out. “What does he look like?”

“Well,” Adam tried tentatively, “I did tell you he was hot, right?”

Philippe’s stomach plummeted.

“You don’t remember, do you?” Last time _he_ was taking Adam’s word on physical attraction.

“No,” Adam continued hastily. He looked quickly at Jordan for help. “He was… tall?”

Jordan frowned. “Dark hair?”

“Nice beard,” Adam admitted, rubbing his hand along his own shapely stubble and shrugging; as though this was a dependable indication of a decent personality. At least if Emre and Adam shared a temperament, there would be a possibility that Philippe would enjoy the evening. There would also be a certainty that the relationship would go nowhere romantic.

“Well,” Philippe said, making sure the sarcasm dripped through his tone. “Tall, dark and handsome. That _really_ narrows it down.”

The other two sighed and looked at each other.

“Don’t get angry at me,” Jordan said. “You got yourself in to this all on your own.”

Philippe was mostly angry about the fact that he was right.

* * *

 

Philippe closed up shop twice a week. That meant that; twice a week he pulled the full twelve hour shift, twice a week he gave the coffee machine one last wipe-down, unloaded the dishwasher and made sure all of the goodies were packed up back in the freezer.

He lingered longer than normal over stacking the pre-prepared muffins, idly considering taking as much time as possible, being late and making Emre think that he wasn’t coming at all. Even Dejan’s easy smile this afternoon hadn’t been enough to improve his mood; Philippe couldn’t help thinking that the only thing that would make him feel better was that if whatever-this-was-tonight was with him instead.

He had resolved that if he survived tonight; Dejan was getting asked out old fashioned, in person, face-to-face style; all other mediums could no longer be trusted- and could go to hell. He’d made Jordan pinky swear him to it.

But then he was conflicted. Was it more cowardly to show up at the time he’d agreed with Emre to save face; or to not show up at all?

In the end he decided that hiding in with the poppy seed muffins was not going to help.

Besides. He was curious. He _could_ hide behind the counter again and see who passed in front of the shop, and make wild guesses as to which might be Emre, but he knew he’d just kick himself later. And plus, if the guy actually came back to the shop at any future date, it would be mortifying.

 _This is all going to be about tactics_ , he thought, untying his apron and smoothing his hair back in the staff bathroom mirror. _How can I play this so it looks like I recognise him?_

He kept his head down as he walked across the shop to the front door, switched off the lights and looked back, more out of habit than anything; to check that the place wasn’t sparking aflame somewhere behind him.

He took a deep breath. Were those _nerves_ rattling around his stomach?

The idea was to lock the door as fast as possible, keep his eyes on the ground until he got to the bench opposite and then become immersed in a game of 2048 as an excuse to not look around and see who was coming. Hopefully, in the midst of all this, his own nosiness wouldn’t interfere and make him take a peek anyway.

But Philippe didn’t even get that far- he’d barely secured the door with the Chubb lock when a late-night radio voice said: “hey”.

Philippe froze.

Philippe told himself to be cool.

Philippe told himself to look.

His immediate thought was that Adam and Jordan had so-very-definitely hit the nail on the head with their description. Emre was definitely tall. He was also definitely dark- with no shortage of soot-coloured, floofy hair neatly waxed in a side parting; and matching neatly trimmed stubble to boot.

Also, annoyingly: he was really, really, _really_ handsome.

In fact, _handsome_ fell rather short as an adjective, Philippe decided. Maybe _dashing_ was better. Or _dapper_ , he realised belatedly; because the neat hairdo was so obviously to compliment the clean-cut suit he was wearing.

So, instead of something cool, chill or hilariously witty; the first thing Philippe said was: “erm, what’s _that_?”

The same dapper apparition in front of him frowned- _Lord_ , Philippe thought, _he looks even better when he’s confused_ \- and looked down at his tie, and back up at Philippe.

“I,” he said slowly, “came from work?”

Philippe’s mouth was dry and words wouldn’t come up it.

 _He called_ me, he thought in the silence that followed. _That called_ me.

“Oh,” he said lamely. Then, “I thought you finished at six.”

“I do generally,” Emre nodded once.

More silence.

“I stayed behind a bit later this evening,” he added with a shrug. Then he smiled. By that, the edges of his lips did indeed curl upwards; but mostly it was as though he’d turned up the twinkle level of his eyes.

Philippe felt sort of overwhelmed. People didn’t normally smile at him only with their eyes.

He wondered if there had been some sort of terrible mistake. If this was Emre, he certainly didn’t look like the type who would normally talk to Philippe of their own free will, like; outside of business transactions.

“Cool,” he said, deciding to play along and wait for the catch, because he was hungry. “Are you ready to eat?” His hand still grasped the key in the lock, and he hastily pulled it free; breaking eye contact as he shoved the over-full key chain in to his pocket.

“Yeah. Starved,” Emre’s voice said, with a pleased lilt at the end.

“Cool,” Philippe said again, probably more times than was actually cool. He was already starting to panic and this just wouldn’t do.

Look. The guy wasn’t meant to be _that_ attractive. He wasn’t meant to be _as attractive as his voice_.

Maybe Philippe was overreacting. Maybe it was just because he’d been expecting this all to go so horribly- and also because no one could ever compare to the ethereal beauty that was Dejan- that the fact Emre actually turned out to be half reasonable was sending him in to a frenzy.

So, carefully; he looked back up again.

Emre was completely unfazed by the length of time it was taking Philippe to store his keys, waiting patiently with his head slightly tilted and one eyebrow cocked over lamp-like eyes; reminding Philippe forcefully of a sphinx.

“The place isn’t far,” Philippe said, lifting his satchel strap over his head to secure it on his neck. Ugh, he was super under-dressed in a t-shirt and jeans. “Uh.”

He twitched his head down the street and as he walked, Emre followed; watching Philippe’s feet and falling carefully in to step. Philippe couldn’t decide if his unnerved or soothed him.

“So,” he started, stammering; “work?”

Emre had a satchel too, although it was a good deal fancier than Philippe’s. He had somehow managed to make it balance perfectly off his shoulder, possibly because he seemed to have gleaned those of an Olympic swimmer. It was intimidating. It was also _really_ hot.

“Yeah,” he said, unbuttoning his blazer. “I don’t work far from here actually. So that’s why I go to your coffee shop.”

 _He says it_ , Philippe thought, _like that wasn’t the first time he was in there_. But surely Philippe would have noticed him? He decided not to press, mostly because Emre said that with another eye-smile and really, Philippe didn’t even know he had defences but he could feel them weakening.

“Cool.” He needed to come up with a better affirmative statement, and stat.

Silence fell, but it was fine because Philippe was soon able to point out the restaurant, located over a laundrette on the corner of a busy junction.

The place was small and neat and far from dingy- although Philippe was still internally stressing over the heavy silence as they’d walked up the stairs, wondering if going for coffee with the guy really would have been a much better and less formal idea; even though he could barely stomach the stuff outside of work hours.

 _Coffee_ , _that is_. _Not dating._

Luckily- around seven seemed to be the time most people ate, or when fans of Vietnamese food ate at any rate. There were only several tables left, and Philippe walked across the room and sat down at one between with looked like two groups of friends before Emre could ask. It was any wonder the guy still followed him; so far Philippe had been either mute or snappy or rude, and even he wasn’t entirely sure he’d want to be dining out with _himself_.

He lifted the menu he already knew by heart and hid his flushing face behind it.

 _I am a disgrace_ , he moaned internally, _bury me alive._

Emre slid his jacket down his shoulders after he sat down, loosening his tie with one hand and looping that off and over his head too.

“Better,” he said with a smile, almost conversationally; rolling his sleeves up his arms, up past his elbows.

Philippe caught sight of the prominent sinews just inside the hinge of his elbow and quickly looked back at the menu.

 _Oh my god_ , _get a grip_. _He really cannot be that good looking._

This was really turning in to an evening of darting eyes. Philippe didn’t consider himself an awkward person- he worked in hospitality after all, and under-caffeinated people were regularly quite horrible to him; his skin was quite thick as a result. A smile normally made everything better, but right now he just could not do it. He was just so _thrown_. Did it have anything to do with how much he’d under-estimated the potential of the situation?

“The Pho is nice,” he blurted out, for something to say. Emre looked up, and Philippe felt guilty for causing the creases under his eyes when he frowned.

Emre’s smile only half-formed. His eyes were clear amber, irises ringed dark so it was impossible to escape. His teeth were even pointy, hitting home even harder the idea that Philippe was actually entertaining a huge, contented cat.

“Is that your expert opinion?” Philippe couldn’t tell if he was teasing. The heat crept down his neck.

He could feel Emre watching him as he fake-examined the menu.

“I’m not from around here,” Emre said, finally realising that Philippe had lost all capability to start a conversation, and would need to be lead. Crippling shyness really was that new to him. “I only got here two weeks ago, for an internship.”

“Oh,” Philippe said. Emre was leaving space for him to ask a question, he was sure of it. He couldn’t really ask one though. It was kind of hard. Emre’s face was super distracting- every time he considered forming thoughts he just ended up becoming more preoccupied with his features. Like: wow, did he sculpt those eyebrows? And that was a very cute freckle in between them.

“I guess what I wanted to say was that I don’t really know anyone,” Emre continued slowly. Too slowly. Oh man, he thought Philippe was stupid. “I just wanted to say thanks for this.”

There is was. Actual, legitimate confirmation that this was not a date.

Philippe’s stomach sort of fell.

“That’s alright,” he said, swallowing hard. “It’s no problem.” But in his head he was screaming: _problem. Problem_ , _problem_ , _problem!_

The other side of Emre’s lips lifted, finally gifting Philippe with the entirety of his grin.

“I just know the other guys in the office,” he went on. “And I’m staying with my grandma until it’s over. Then you asked me to call you, and I thought: finally, a conversation about something that isn’t legislation or bridge.” He frowned at the menu again, leaving Philippe to feel generally terrible about completely letting him down at that end. And plus, Philippe hadn’t even wanted Emre to call him.

He prayed silently that Emre would at least like the food.

“What are you interning in?” he asked, finally finding his voice. He spoke too fast and his words sort of ran in to each other, but it was a start.

The office that wasn’t far from where Philippe worked was the complex that he’d always suspected Dejan hailed from. Emre explained that his job was to help with a current merger and some things called tenders. Philippe wasn’t too sure what they were, but they sure sounded important.

Then he was silent again.

Philippe thought, _how does he get his beard to do that? It’s so neat. It_ grows _. It’s unfair._

He was envious, obviously. He’d wasted large portions of his life in front of the bathroom mirror fretting over potential hints that his chin had also finally reached puberty.

It was at this moment that he realised; actually, Emre was leaving him room to speak.

“Uh,” he said, “I do psychology. In university.” _No_ , _wait_. “I _did_ psychology in university. Because, I, uh, graduated in May.” His mind was now fresh out of thoughts on the subject. “Yeah,” he finished meekly.

Later, he would wonder why he hadn’t thought to explain that he’d chosen the major against his parent’s wishes, choosing his interests over becoming a lawyer like his older brothers. Why hadn’t he explained why exactly he’d loved it so much? Told Emre stories of babysitting his a-little-too-fond-of-fun roommate? That funding his masters was exactly why he was working in the coffee shop, and why they’d met in the first place?

However, right now all Philippe could think was: _man_ , _I wish I could see his hair without all that styling wax in it. I bet it would be lovely to put my fingers in while making out like in a bad romance novel._

Fate, however, wasn’t letting Philippe down tonight; despite how badly he was damaging himself, because that was when the waiter arrived to take their order. His sudden loss for words didn’t end up being half as awkward as it could have been.

Philippe, a creature of habit, had only ever ordered one thing in all the time he’d been coming here; and Emre followed.

“I trust your judgement,” he explained.

“You’ve only just met me,” Philippe spluttered. “You definitely should not trust me.”

Emre laughed, rolling his sleeves in to more secure cuffs up his arms. The contrast between his skin and the crisp white shirt made Philippe want to reach out and touch them both.

“I lied,” he said simply. “I don’t know if I like Vietnamese food. I’ve never eaten it. I’m going to guess that you have, so…”

“You should have said,” Philippe protested, the fretting really starting to pile up on him. “I could have gone safe. Like… Italian. You don’t get safer than spaghetti meatballs.”

The waiter frowned at him and Philippe hid his face in his hands. Someone was roaring with laughter, and he was sure it was Emre.

“Stop _tittering_ ,” he hissed, making Emre laugh some more- because for all his beef, Emre’s laugh was more of a high-pitched giggle.

“Okay,” Emre snorted, running his hand down his face. Philippe heard it scratch over the stubble on his cheeks, looked up to see his fingers run along his bottom lip; and then their eyes met.

Emre had sodding crinkly laughing eyes too, a level up on the smiling ones. Philippe’s heart seemed to thump in time to: _well_ , _shit._

“Sorry,” he said, for something to say.

“For what?” Emre asked, still stroking his crisp facial hair. Philippe imagined it was soothing. Well, he wouldn’t know.

“I’m sure I have something to be sorry for,” he admitted, after a few brain-wracking seconds of silence.

Emre made a steeple with his hands, rested his elbows on and frowned. “Well,” he confessed, eyebrows all long fluffy pipe cleaners leading straight down to his very regal nose, “that flat white I got from you yesterday was a bit on the latte side.”

Philippe couldn’t decide if he was joking or not. Then again, if the guy went through the trouble of ordering a flat white- which, in Philippe’s opinion, _was_ just a fancy latte- there must be a discernible reason.

“Ah,” he said sheepishly, “that could be it.” _Because it_ was _a latte! It was_ Dejan’s latte _! But I can’t hold it against you because you could pass for a Calvin Klein model! Because I really am that shallow!_ “Sorry.”

He decided that Emre was trying to kill his smile behind his fingers when he pressed them up against his lips.

“Sorry,” he said again. He bit back his grin.

“You really like to get your apologies out early.”

“It’s the best way to have them. I will apologise for nothing else for the rest of the evening.” He placed his hand over his heart. “Scout’s honour.”

“I will keep that in mind,” Emre said, “for next time.”

Philippe’s heart changed its tune.

_Next-time. Next-time. Next-time._

_You know_ , he told himself. _It’s not entirely possible that he’s already taken_ , _and has some sweetheart waiting for him back at his home place._

 _But how to wheedle_ that _in to the conversation?_

Something told him that this is something he should ask Adam, because Adam would know.

“You’re lucky that we even know what a flat white is,” he pointed out. “We really are living in the back of beyond out here. I mean, I wouldn’t if I didn’t get the odd Australian in who always tries to tell me that they invented it.”

“And did they?”

“What?”

“Invent it.”

“Invent what?”

Emre’s smile was so wide that Philippe decided his cheeks _must_ be hurting. But Philippe didn’t want it to stop, not while he felt the need to return it.

“No,” he said eventually, caving under Emre’s _Now See Here_ raised eyebrows. “I have no idea and I don’t care.”

If only Emre didn’t look so entertained by that statement. Teasing the snarky small guy was probably a fun social experiment for most, but being on the receiving end gave Philippe a headache. Besides, he didn’t like to think of himself as this snippy- he was just hungry. He was just glad for now that it didn’t seem to have scared the guy away.

But then again, this wasn’t actually a date.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, and in a strop; he ignored it.

They ate in silence, punctuated only by their slurps as they wolfed it down. Philippe hadn’t even noticed how hungry being awkward had made him, and he tried to think of Very Interesting Topics that they could discuss. Safe topics. Intellectually stimulating ones- although he might leave his planned research for his post-grad to one side. He got really in to them, and he imagined that would be the opposite of Playing It Cool.

He’d cleared his bowl long before Emre, with the lingering feeling of having ingested so fast that he may have inhaled some up his nose. In contrast, Emre chewed through each mouthful and even used his napkin.

“I live with my _grandmother_ ,” he said, exasperated; when he caught Philippe staring at the napkin.

“I live with my _parents_ ,” Philippe argued.

They both broke out in to grins.

 _Okay_ , Philippe thought. _Okay. Let’s try this._

“Maybe Italian next time,” Emre said, wrapping his noodles skeptically around his fork.

“Next time,” Philippe echoed, a promise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Estimated chapter numbers have doubled due to serious season withdrawal.
> 
> I can reveal that chapter three will be titled "We are so very definitely not dating."


	3. "We are so very definitely not dating."

“Look,” Philippe started slowly, eyeing the cappuccino on the counter in front of him with caution. “I know it was Monty Python who said that Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition, but like- you guys do realise that this morning I totally expected the Spanish Inquisition.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Jordan said.

“You’re such a nerd.” Adam scratched behind his ear.  

Philippe sighed. “Just… let a man get his jacket off. Then feel free to interrogate me to your heart’s content.”

“There’s only one answer we want,” Jordan said, and Philippe saw him side-eyeing Adam. This was difficult to do nonchalantly, because Adam was actually standing behind him, the other side of the counter. Philippe often wondered why Adam didn’t just cross the countertop, become an actual member of staff and be done with it.

“Yeah,” Adam was grinning stupidly at Philippe when he turned around, tying his apron behind his neck.  Adam’s hair splayed in all directions from his head. Philippe was reminded suddenly of a well-worn toothbrush. “We just wanted to know if you two got your smooch on.”

Philippe blinked at him.

“That means-“

“I _know_ what that means.” Philippe said, already exhausted. For God’s sake, the sun was barely up. “And no, Adam. The answer is _no_. It wasn’t a date. Yeah, you heard me. Thanks for the coffee though,” he said cheerfully, lifting the cup from his saucer and saluting them with his other hand.

“What do you mean?” Adam asked, confused.

“It wasn’t because _he said_ it wasn’t,” Philippe responded, with a carefree _See? Not my fault_ shrug. “He’s not from around here and wants a tour guide, is all.” _And_ _when we left the restaurant he went his own way and I went mine_ , he thought. _There was very obviously none of that_ Will I walk you to your car? _sexual tension._

“Sounds like a pathetic excuse to me,” Adam argued. “If I wanted to see someone again I would also be all, ‘oh, silly me. I know nothing about this thing. I will need you to answer many pointless questions on the thing I know nothing about’. Textbook.”

Philippe felt his eyebrows draw in to a frown. “I think I understood that.” Adam opened his mouth to continue, so Philippe cut across him. “Also, no. The guy is at least six foot tall so you can stop giving him the voice of a strangled pigeon when you mimic him. Yes,” he continued, when Adam looked impressed. “Six whole feet.” He really shouldn’t have sounded smug when he said that. Jordan’s eyebrow crept upwards, but he didn’t say anything. Philippe slurped on his cappuccino foam and continued. The foam was the best part. “Look, it was pretty clear he wasn’t interested, alright?”

This didn’t necessarily mean that Philippe didn’t entertain the notion. That he had spent a long time last night entertaining the notion.

“When are you seeing him again?” Jordan interrupted.

“I don’t know,” Philippe lied, because they’d arranged to go for something to eat again on Thursday, Thursday now being tomorrow. He had a feeling that pre-decided meetings and this soon afterwards might not help his case that there was nothing going on. Also, Thursday was his day off and he wouldn’t be in work- so really, neither of them had to know. “I mean. I mean he’s a charming bloke. I am sure he is booked up with actual dates during the week, you know.”

“Awww,” Adam, excited, pushed his stool back and pushed himself upright on the bar. “Do I detect _jealousy_? Was I right? Was he super-duper, bang-me-in-public hot?”

“Bang-me-in _what_?” Philippe half-laughed, half-slurped too much scalding coffee and choke-coughed sending the rest of it sloshing over his knuckles. He yelped and dropped the cup in to the sink.

Aaand there was already a stain on his apron. This had to be a record, and Philippe was so clumsy his grandmother always accused him of having ten thumbs instead of fingers. Philippe in fact thought the opposite- that he had no thumbs at all, given that his ability to grip was nil.

“Eh,” he said, shaking out his hands to dry. “Not my type.” He figured that he was lying mostly to himself. Philippe didn’t even know he _had_ a type; he was just pretty sure that Emre was appealing to all existing humans without exception. It was a cheekbone thing. Somehow linked to science. Survival instinct, or something. “Hmmm.” His hands were getting sticky from the sweet coffee, and he washed them quickly under the tap. “I’m not going to be a cliché. I’m not going to be that easy barista.”

“You’re not a barista,” Jordan pointed out.

“I don’t have the fancy diploma but I still know how to work the machine, alright?” Philippe quipped. “You totally weren’t mentioning that out when you left me to finish up on my own last night, were you.”

After Jordan retorted with an “oh, _snarly_ ,” Adam picked it up.

“Yesterday, it was all Dejan this; Dejan that- and now you’re like; ‘I could go out with this other guy, but maybe I won’t’. Wow, he _must_ be hot.”

“Shut up, Adam,” Philippe shot back. His ears grew warm, and Adam beamed at him. “Mind your own goddamn business.”

So, now he had to face the morning, after letting them know that they’d touched a nerve. This was just going _stellar_.

* * *

 

Philippe spent an inappropriately disproportionate amount of time thinking about the next day.

He thought about it through the normal chats with the regulars. He thought about it during his break, thought about it while steaming foam and applying elbow grease to clean out the blender… actually, the only time he didn’t think about it when Dejan smiled at him, and he was so surprised at this that he… well. Thought about it.

The frequency and force of it was hard to hide from his one-and-a-half co-workers; but he couldn’t risk the obvious heavy misinterpretation that would surely follow, in the sense that it proved their previous points.

He wasn’t sure what he was even considering about the whole thing. The fact it was even happening kept walking rudely in to his head. Was it that he was flattered at the quick proposal of a second non-date? It was rather remarkable, especially after his own dorky display. Maybe the guy was in to comic relief at the stuttering suffering of others.

Was it that Emre had nice eyes? Yes, that was also true. They truly were at the worst end of the scale of twinkly and deep, and his eyelashes did an awfully good job of framing them.

All this reflecting was freaking him out.

This was not _normal._

He thought about it on the bus. Thought about how very liney Emre’s forehead had become when he frowned at his noodles. He thought about how funny Emre had found his accidentally insulting the waiter to his face (Philippe, obviously, could never go back there again).

Before bed, he thought that he could not possibly rationalize the situation any longer. He was certain that he had well and truly over-cooked the subject. But the next morning, some lingering sensation in his brain told him that his subconscious had concluded differently.

Half- asleep, slightly upset; he rolled over under his sheet and reached for his phone. He considered texting Neymar and asking what was going on, but maybe even this obsessive behaviour was too much for Neymar and he may have Philippe committed.

His body clock had woken him at the time he normally fell out of bed for work. Philippe’s brain sometimes worked too hard to make unnecessary leaps this early in the morning; a mirror of all those unnecessary physical leaps that were almost too much at six a.m.: from his bed to the bathroom sink, for example, or the breakfast table to the bus stop down the road. And Philippe considered himself a morning person.

Thankfully, the fact that it was Thursday meant that it was firmly Lucas’s turn- twelve hour shifts meant that Philippe had to take every third day off. While great in theory, mostly it meant staring at his ceiling at really stupid hours of the morning.

His eyes felt sore and dry and he rubbed his cheeks, stretched his legs out under the sheet.

 _Stop thinking about it_ , _stop_ , _stop_ , _stop_ , _just_ stop, he told himself; and then buried his head under his pillow to smother out any other thoughts.

* * *

 

“Where are _you_ going?”

Philippe froze in the threshold of the front door.

God dammit.

“Out, Ma,” he grumbled, shuffling back around to face the kitchen.

“In that jacket?”

Philippe frowned, and looked down.

“What about it?”

His mother pursed her lips. “It’s… _nice.”_

Oh man. Oh man, he had been _so close_.

His mother put down the laundry basket so she could square her hands on her hips. Philippe sensed leading questions, and honestly, he had had enough of those from yesterday to last him several lifetimes.

So. Pros of being home for entire summer included awesome wifi and perpetually stocked cupboards. Cons: Mom.

“Where?” she narrowed her eyes at him. “With who?”

Like anyone who was totally innocent, heat rushed up Philippe’s neck from his chest.

“Oh my God, Ma,” he snapped.  “ _Just_ out, oh my _God_.”

He probably slammed the door hard enough to have merited an earful upon his return, but that wasn’t what he was thinking about as he hopped from one foot to the other at the empty bus stop.

He was going to be on time. He was too chicken to be fashionably late, even for this.

Public transport in this town smelled of wet and weed, but the alternative was actually getting behind the wheel of a car after all. The thought was almost enough to make him shudder in his seat.

The restaurant- _Mario’s_ , because Italian restaurateurs just couldn’t beat a good stereotype- was so much a favourite of his mother’s that he was nearly certain that the waiter inside the front door looked behind Philippe on a reflex, as if expecting all the other members of his family to jump out from the wings.

“Uh,” Philippe swallowed, “there’s a reservation. For two. Um. He might be here already, let me just…”

He ducked his head behind the waiter. There was no sign of Emre.

He looked quickly at his watch. No, that wasn’t it- he was still early.

 _By two whole minutes_ , he counted. He looked around the room again.

Something lodged itself in to the back of his brain. Some horrible, mortifying thought.

That was when he started to panic. So he pulled out his phone.

 _Hey_ , he typed. _I’m here._

He hit _send_ before he could think too much about it.

Pity, because he realised half a second later that he hadn’t specified where _here_ was.

 _At the restaurant_ , he followed up, feeling like banging his head against the wall.

“Um,” he said to the waiter. “I’m going to just wait over here.”

“We can always get you a table in the mean time,” he offered back. “If you tell me what name it’s under.”

“No, no,” Philippe said hurriedly. “He’ll be here. In, like, two minutes.” When the waiter gave him a sympathetic, knowing look; he chose to respond with a defiant “I’m _early_.”

Well. Now by a minute and twenty seconds.

Decidedly he set his jaw and looked out the window. He barely knew Emre and there was normal society etiquette to consider. Basically, he couldn’t be _late_.

“You know,” the waiter said, coming back after showing a party of three to a table. “If you sat down you could have some breadsticks. They’re free.”

Philippe looked at him for a long second. He must have looked as he felt: clammy, panicked and miserable; because the waiter just shrugged as if to say _Look buddy_ , _I did try_.

Philippe looked out the window. He wished it wasn’t so sunny, so he might have more reasons to feel so glum.

He wondered if his Mom had been right about the jacket. Was it really that obvious?

When his phone did eventually ring, he nearly dropped it in his haste to answer.

“Hello?” he asked, even though there’d been caller ID, and he knew who it was. But.

“Hey,” Emre’s voice said, “it’s Emre.”

He sounded… weird. Tired. Like he’d been furiously rubbing his face in the lead up to this call, in order to wake himself. Or to prepare himself.

“Listen,” he continued, as Philippe opened his mouth to say something lame in response. “I have to work tonight. I won’t make it.”

Philippe later thought that he should have half-appreciated the honesty, but he kind of felt like someone had dropped a bowling ball on his ribs, so rapid was their deflation. And, like; cracked some too.

“Oh,” he wheezed. The waiter sighed obviously.

“Hey,” Emre’s voice went soft. Philippe could _feel_ himself being smouldered out, and Emre was at the _other end of the telephone line._ “I’m really sorry.” Suddenly Philippe wanted to forgive him. “We have to have this tender done by tomorrow.” Again, that word. Philippe should really wiki it.

Emre’s voice went even softer. Philippe got the impression that he was trying to not be overheard. “I’m sorry.”

Damn, he was good. Philippe almost didn’t feel pathetic about being stood up.

“Are you,” Philippe practically heard him wince, “there?”

“The restaurant? Uh, yeah.” Philippe closed his eyes and waited for it.

 _This isn’t my fault_ , he told himself. _Why couldn’t he have told me this half an hour ago? Right?_

He heard Emre give a long sigh, and make a groaning sound; kind of like his was smushing his face with his hand again. Somehow, it still sounded suave and classy.

“Dude,” Philippe offered. “It’s fine.”

The waiter coughed now. Philippe wished he had something to throw at him.

“Philippe-“

“No really.” Philippe gulped on a reflex- he was a terrible liar- and hoped that Emre hadn’t heard. “It’s fine. It’s _so_ fine. I, uh, have other things I can be doing, you know?” Which, he realised later, wasn’t a particularly nice thing to say at all; especially since Emre seemed genuinely remorseful. “I’ll see you again, yeah?”

“Philippe-,” Emre’s voice went down an octave, kind of like he was going to follow it up with _are you mad at me?_ Because, no shit.

“See you,” and Philippe hung up.

Only then did he allow himself to feel truly crushed.

“Stupid,” he told himself, and the phone.

“I take it,” the waiter said, “that you _don’t_ want a table anymore?”

Philippe glowered at him. This was hard, because he seemed like a rather nice guy actually. Bright-eyed and with, Philippe decided, almost pleasantly large ears.

“Nah,” he agreed instead. “I’ll pick up a tub of ice cream on the way home. No big deal. He just had to work tonight.” He pointed at his phone.

The waiter looked at him for a long moment. Then he broke in to a grin.

“Well, if he’s working again and you’re equally stuck,” he winked, and pulled a post it from the desk in front of him, and started to scribble on it.

Philippe blinked. “What?” he wondered out loud.

“This,” the waiter folded the post-it over and reached out to him. Philippe took it carefully between his middle and index finger and then unfolded it, not without suspicion.

“It’s my number,” the waiter said, completely unashamedly.

Philippe blinked. Then he left before he could do something stupid, like reply.

* * *

 

Philippe made it the whole way to his kitchen the next morning- normally around the time when his autopilot function seemed to fade- before he remembered. He had had six whole, glorious shame-free minutes to start his day.

“Oh _God_ ,” he moaned out loud, slamming the switch down on the kettle.

“Idiot,” he whimpered, viciously smothering his toast with butter.

“ _Stupid_ ,” he whispered, stomping down the road in the purple light of the morning to the bus stop. He was a morning person, but he was pretty sure that his hour could often be confused for just being very late at night; and therefore did not count.

He was still in a mood and in great need of his morning dose of liquidised burnt cocoa beans when he arrived at the front of the shop. Such was his focus on this next vital step to his morning routine- after getting the bloody key to fit in the door- that when he heard his name he yelped and dropped the keys in fright.

“What are you _doing_ here?” he hissed, swooping down to scoop them back up again.

“Sorry,” Emre murmured. He rubbed his hand along his jaw and grinned suddenly- very bright for the hour. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Scare me?!” Philippe exclaimed. “It’s half past six in the morning! Why on earth are you _here_?”

He looked him up and down suddenly. Emre was dressed the exact same way the Philippe was used to seeing him: suited and booted, to the point where Philippe was now sure that Emre owned exactly one tie. But something about him looked… off. Philippe blinked his eyes wider and rubbed at them for good measure but he still wasn’t sure what it was.

“I felt really bad about last night,” Emre explained, leaning casually against the door frame; right next to where Philippe had been about to jam his key in to the lock. He refrained now, because he wasn’t sure what the proximity would do: he would either jump Emre or hit him. “One of our clients sent out a last minute RFT and the deadline was nine this morning.”

“I don’t really know what that means,” Philippe said in a small voice, feeling thick; and not entirely sure that he could blame the hour.

Emre relaxed even further in to the shop front. “You have no idea how good it is to hear that,” he sighed. His eyes blinked slowly- narrowed and closing softly when they did. “Because that is all I have been hearing about, since I got the news yesterday and until,” he pulled back his sleeve and looked at his watch, “about an hour ago, when we finished up.” He smiled tiredly, but not at Philippe. More like a reflex to habitual, unavoidable torture. “Basically- any intern that could be spared spent the night printing and photocopying to within an inch of their lives.”

“And you only finished an hour ago?” Philippe twiddled the keys between his fingers. “That’s depressing.” He considered letting him off for the actual zero notice for not showing up last night. Considered.

Emre’s smile curled in to something more genuine. Philippe was suddenly aware of how close they were to each other. Closer, it seemed; that half a second before. “I could really use a coffee.”

If Philippe had been half wondering, up to that point, whether or not this behaviour was stalkerish and creepy- showing up unannounced to scare the shit from him and all, and well: this answered his question.

It was always useful to have a friend to provide you coffee on demand, right?

“Awh,” he said, mad at him again, “and I thought for a second that you’d come all this way just to see me.”

“Are you always so…” Philippe held open the door to let Emre through, an Emre whose mood appeared to be surprisingly buoyant. “ _Angry_?”

“Yes.” Because Philippe was in no mood to humour him just yet. He needed some time still to process Emre’s arrival, and he hoped that it would only take as long as he had to wait for the coffee machine to heat up.

He was never making fun of Jordan for not being a morning person again.

“Look-” he tried, turning around inside the door.

“Listen-“ Emre said, still holding it open and with one foot just about inside it.

They both stopped, and Philippe was about to continue when he let out a yawn so huge that he had to take a step backwards.

“Whoa,” Emre said, before Philippe could excuse himself.  He actually looked impressed.

“Sorry,” Philippe said sleepily. He rubbed his eyes again. “Imma get it for you now.”

“ _I’m_ sorry,” Emre insisted, cautiously. He waited several seconds before continuing, eyeing Philippe like Philippe might eat him, or something.

Philippe could not deny at this stage that there were certain elements to Emre that were positively mouth-watering. And he still thought this, while half-asleep, and half-wanting to hit him.

“It’s _fine_ ,” he said earnestly. “I _said_ it was fine.”

“I know you did,” Emre said, rather shortly. “But I wanted you to know that I was, literally, gutted that I couldn’t see you last night.”

Philippe didn’t know what to make of such a sincere statement. So he turned around to duck behind the counter, and chose to ignore it.

“It’s really, very fine.” Last night Philippe had felt like never forgiving him. He flicked the switch on the machine as Emre slid elegantly on to one of the bar stools.

“You keep saying that and I really am not getting that impression.” Emre pulled a bowl of sugar sachets towards him and fiddled gently with the edges of the packets. “And I want to make it up to you. If I can.”

“Don’t say it like it was a waste,” Philippe said, thinking about the waiter. Like he was going to call him or, something. This re-emergence of Emre seemed to have pressed pause on that idea.

The pre-heat light switched off on the machine, and Philippe ducked down to the cupboard; hunting for coffee beans.

 “You know,” Emre’s voice floated down to him as he reached back down the cupboard. “I found out the other day-“ his words were drowned out in the rustle of packets as Philippe pulled two out.

“Huh?” Philippe asked, re-emerging.

“I said,” Emre repeated calmly, still unnervingly calmly for the hour and his claimed lack of sleep. _But not, like, in a psychotic way,_ Philippe decided. _Like he’s accepted that this is how he’s gonna have to roll for now._ “That I found something out the other day, that was really cool.”

“No,” Philippe said hastily. “I got that bit.” He had to reach a bit to unscrew the lid of the coffee grinder. God, this was a painfully long process. “It was the part _after_ that that I didn’t get.”

“Oh, right,” Emre yawned, reminding Philippe of the existence of many unusually sharp teeth. “I thought maybe you might have heard but,” he tore slowly at the sugar sachet. “My gran knows you. Well,” he continued when Philippe’s jaw dropped in confusion. “She knows _your_ Gran. And so, by default: she knows a lot about you.”

This was turning in to the longest day of Philippe’s life, and it could barely be seven in the morning.

“Excellent,” he sighed, feeling a yawn growing in his throat and shuddering as he swallowed it right back down. The grinder roared to life. “Cheers, Granny.” Philippe’s Granny sometimes felt like his only ally in his house- it was almost a given that she would fight the corner of her youngest grandchild- but he had a feeling he was about to be horribly let down.

“I heard some stories,” Emre said, pleased. “Fun stories.”

Philippe glared at him. Emre’s eyes were half-closed when he glared back, like a lizard’s.

“That sounds promising,” Philippe said drily. “But before you indulge yourself, think carefully. How much do you want this coffee?”

Emre looked at him for a second. Then his face split in to a grin. Some of his hair flopped forward on to his forehead, and Philippe thought _dammit_. It somehow had the knock-on effect of dramatically reducing the amount of dread he felt when Emre began his next sentence.

“Did you,” Emre asked, “ _really_ only discover that you were allergic to cucumbers when you were fourteen?”

Philippe let his eyes roll back in to his head as he groaned. So he heard rather than saw Emre say: “and so you then threw up your fajitas all over the dinner table?”

“ _Please_ ,” Philippe hid his face behind one hand, drawing it down his cheeks as if to smush out the memory.

“That one’s a favourite down at the bridge club, apparently,” Emre said, smugly. “My Gran said she’s heard it five times.”

With a final groan, Philippe turned is back to him and reached for the milk.

“We don’t talk about it,” he croaked.

“I can imagine,” Emre hummed. “First time at your boyfriend’s house, wasn’t it?”

Emre surely saw the back of Philippe’s neck flare red, judging by how hot it suddenly became. Oh wow, Philippe was _not_ in the mood to discuss his high school mistakes with Emre, of all people. Especially not _that_ mistake.

“That should have been my first warning,” he said, a little too chirpily. Because, it was hard to work on his tone when inside he was shrieking: _Crap!_

He decided that Emre might like a large coffee, and doubled on the ristretto. And he absolutely did not face him.

_Goddammit, Granny._

“So it didn’t end well then?”

Philippe turned up the steam wand and ignored him.

“I meant the dinner,” Emre continued, because Philippe could only keep that up for so long without having to start all over again. “And not the relationship.”

“Why,” Philippe implored, “are we talking about this?” He lolled his head around on his neck, partly to avoid the steam from the milk getting straight in to his eyes, partly so he could glare at Emre. But Emre looked like he was having such a good time… so really, that was kind of hard.

Emre’s lips in his smile had grown thin when they were so pursed together. _Contained laughter_. “No reason.” He dropped his eyes and went back to gently tearing the edges of sugar packets. He didn’t even look up when Philippe clunked two coffee cups on the counter in front of him, rather shifted his gaze to watch Philippe fold the foamy milk in to his coffee.

Philippe, miraculously, did not mess up. His hand didn’t even wobble, although his knees had gone a bit trembly.

“Tah-dah!” He finished with a flourish, and pushed Emre’s cup towards him. “Large flat white, at your service.”

That made Emre look up.

“You still remember my order?” He sounded both surprised and confused, and not at all flattered; as Philippe really had thought he would be.

“Uh, yeah,” Philippe reached for several of the rare remaining untouched sugars, and dunked them liberally in to his own coffee. “You made it, on like; Monday.”

“Yeah,” Emre’s big hand reached for Philippe spoon, and he reached across and placed it gently in Philippe’s coffee. Carefully, he began to stir. “Monday was a while ago.”

Maybe it was because Philippe suddenly caught a whiff of Emre, right then, as he leaned across the counter, and he smelled far better than anyone who had been up all night should have. Maybe it was because Emre’s mouth was suddenly very, very close again.

The heat that had been on Philippe neck spread up to his cheeks, and down to his chest.

Emre was carefully watching his task. A little too carefully. Philippe wasn’t sure if he was glad, Emre’s eyes on him in this chaotic mix would surely only make him more of a disaster.

His breathing grew slightly wheezy. He gripped the countertop.

“I might be working on Saturday too,” Emre said, slowly. Maybe it only seemed slow because Philippe was too busy tracing the outline of his lips with his eyes. “But what are you doing on Sunday?” He lifted the spoon and pressed it to the edge of the cup. Philippe thought it may have taken three years for all the dregs to run off, and for Emre to finally place it back on the saucer.

There was not one iota of moisture in Philippe’s throat, and he swallowed. Loudly. It strained enough to make his eyes water.

“Uh,” he began, half searching his head for the meaning of the word “Sunday” (which he appeared to have temporarily forgotten), half measuring the length of Emre’s eyelashes (so long).

It was, right at that second, with all of his trademark poise and politeness, not, that Adam Lallana came crashing through the front door.

If Philippe had been more awake, his reflexes may have intervened and made him leap back before he could have been found in any incriminating position. As it was, Emre was still leaning across the counter on his elbows and one of his hands was resting very close to Philippe’s arm, most definitely inside Philippe’s, ordinarily heavily-guarded, personal space. And then Emre turned his head towards the door and his hair sort of quivered and more of it fell forward into his limp fringe and his face went all frowny and _Excuse me?_ and Philippe was powerless to do anything, really.

He did also see Adam stop, and his eyes narrow in to teeny-tiny accusatory slits.

“Well, well, _well,_ ” he declared, “isn’t this very _domestic_.”

Philippe flipped him off with his mind. He had a funny feeling that Adam did get the message. Maybe it had something to do with how they were both glaring at him.

Adam then went on to not act on these liberally-given warnings.

“Hi,” he said, suddenly awake. “You’re Emre, right?”

Emre sat back in his seat. He looked at Philippe, confused.

“Uh,” Philippe swallowed violently again, “Emre, this Adam. Adam is, uh… here a lot.”

 _Like before opening hours_. He would skin Adam for that later. He wasn’t meant to be getting away with that kind of stuff when Jordan wasn’t here.

Adam hoisted his massive laptop up further under his arm and grinned at Emre. To anyone else, it could have been perceived as friendly and warm. All Philippe saw was cunning and scheming.

Slowly, he lifted his coffee cup to his mouth, and chickened out of making the next move.

“Hel- _lo_ ,” Adam purred, dropping his stuff on the counter beside Emre and wriggling himself on to the stool. “I’ve heard a lot about _you_.”

Philippe wished he could kick him under the counter.

“Adam,” he said evenly, “why are you here _now_.”

“My publisher wants a word count by Wednesday,” Adam drawled, self-importantly. “I’m a writer,” he explained to Emre.

Emre didn’t look impressed. In fact, he looked at Philippe, confused, like: _who the hell is this guy?_

And suddenly Philippe was calm.

“Hey Adam,” he said, with extra emphasis, “are you still going to watch the game on Sunday?”

Adam had mentioned going to see the final playing in the pub down the road on Sunday. However, he had not invited Philippe; and if he had up until half a second ago Philippe would have laughed at him if he had.

Not, anyway, that he would have been asked in the first place. Philippe just sort of assumed that he had a life outside the coffee shop.

Adam blinked, thrown. Philippe thought: _Yes!_

“Because Emre was looking for something to do on Sunday,” Philippe was continuing, in a rush. “And I thought he could come with us.”

“With us?” Adam echoed. Confused puppy.

“Yeah,” Philippe beamed at him, and then beamed at Emre. There was an awful lot of adrenalin in his veins. “You know. You said.” He gave him a meaningful look. Adam stared blankly back.

“Emre,” Philippe was starting to like saying his name repeatedly. “What do you think?”

Emre sipped at his coffee, looking up at Philippe from under his eyelashes. Philippe held his gaze, despite the sudden spike in his body temperature.  And like, the very hard beat of his pulse against his neck. Emre’s eyes were like the very worst in melted caramel fudge sauce.

“Sure,” he said. “That sounds good.”

Philippe looked at Emre. Emre looked at Philippe. And then Emre smiled at him, and it was like the sun had come up again.

“Listen,” Adam pressed, “I don’t want to sound rude, or anything, but were you home last night?” He was looking at Emre.

“That _is_ rude, Adam.” Philippe wished he could kick him. Again.

“I was working?” Emre tried tentatively. He looked at Philippe for help. Philippe was, bar the teeny headrush that this seemed to give him, totally fine with Emre looking at him this much.

“ _All_ night?” Adam asked lightly, glancing at Philippe in mock surprise.

“Well,” Emre said, “yeah.”

There was a long silence where Adam looked like he didn’t believe him.

“So are you two like,” he actually licked his lips, “dating now?”

Philippe hid his face in his hands on a reflex. He just about stopped himself from curling in to a ball on the floor.

“ _Adam_ ,” he moaned, muffled.

“What?” Adam asked.

Philippe lowered his hands and steadied himself with the countertop. He nearly, but didn’t growl at him. He’d never felt so mortified in his life, and he’d even just found out that his grandmother repeatedly told his most embarrassing stories to all of her friends.

“Listen,” Emre said quietly. “It was nice meeting you.” He leaned towards Philippe again, but it was only so he could lift himself from his seat to reach in to the back pocket of his jeans and pull out his wallet.

“Its fine,” Philippe insisted, when Emre looked up at the menu over his head, he guessed for the price.

“Are you sure?” Emre was pulling out the money anyway.

Philippe didn’t really know what came over him. He lifted his hands, curled them around one of Emre’s and pushed them back in to his chest. They were large, and warm, and dry; and Philippe realized too late that his own palms were a sweaty mess. “Dude, we aren’t even open.”

Emre paused, weighing up his options. “I’ll get you back on Sunday,” he promised. “Just let me know what the plan is.”

“Uh, yeah,” Philippe hurriedly lifted his hands. “Later.” He wiped his palms on his jeans, like it was any use.

Emre was out the door exactly two seconds when Adam spun around to Philippe, looking like Christmas had come early.

“Oh,” he said, his eyes wide. “ _Oh_.”

“ _No,_ ” Philippe said helplessly. “ _Adam_. Please. We are so _very definitely_ not dating.”

“Really,” Adam said, all pleased with himself. “I saw the bit where he _stirred your coffee_ , man. It was like, disgustingly cute. Are you seriously trying to tell me that you _aren’t_?”

“We’re not,” Philippe murmured, picking up Emre’s half-finished cup and bringing it over to the sink to rinse. “That’s _exactly_ what I’m telling you.”

“Yeah, but I’ve _never_ seen you out to impress someone so much.”

Philippe thought about retorting, but instead he frowned at him, in a way that hopefully suggested that Adam should know better than to make those statements. No matter how well founded they appeared to be.

“Really,” Adam insisted, “what’s this beef with us hanging out on Sunday? I didn’t know we hung out now.”

“We don’t,” Philippe promised. “Just Sunday. Now can I finish my coffee in peace?”

“No,” Adam said. He crossed his arms over his chest, in what appeared to be a sulk. “Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?”

“There’s nothing going on,” Philippe replied, probably too shrilly.

“But he went all red and embarrassed when _you_ did,” Adam whined, “and then he was real disappointed when you didn’t answer.”

Philippe froze. “He was?”

Adam dropped the theatrics.

“No,” he grinned. “But now that I’ve got your attention, will you tell me?”

So Philippe sighed, and told him.

“Look, okay.” He ran his hands back through his hair. “Maybe Emre _is_ like, pretty hot.”

Adam shifted in his seat, and looked like he was settling down in to a more comfortable position, for the long haul. His eyes were still annoyingly bright. “Are you trying to say… _more_ than Dejan?”

Philippe scowled. “I don’t know him, though. He could have a weird fetish for short people, so he keeps showing up here.”

Adam snorted. “I do think that’s it,” he admitted, giving Philippe a knowing wink. “You didn’t know anything about Dejan either and it didn’t stop all of that drooling.”

“Ugh,” Philippe said. “I’m trying to open my soul to you here. Stop making fun of me.”

Adam raised his hands in surrender and shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “Tell me more.”

* * *

 

So Philippe found himself in the smelly booth of a smelly pub, squished between Adam’s two (thankfully nice-smelling) football buddies.

And there was Philippe thinking that Adam didn’t have any friends. Rickie looked like his football encyclopaedia of a brain constantly exhausted him and Nate was tall and neat with a twinkle in his eye that Philippe suspected Adam had contracted.

Also, after protesting loudly that Philippe couldn’t possibly be over the drinking age (like Philippe hadn’t heard that one before); they had both declared it all in jest and went back to nuggie-ing him whenever they got bored. Because the football hadn’t started yet, this was always.

He wasn’t sure if Emre’s imminent arrival would make everything fine, or worse.

When his phone buzzed to life, he grabbed it a little too eagerly.

“Who’s Flat White?” Nate asked, wrinkling his eyebrows.

“You seriously put him as that for his caller ID?” Adam asked, in a state of delighted incredulousness; pretty much since Friday morning. Philippe was getting quite sick of the sight of his tonsils.

Emre ducked in to the pub and Philippe almost didn’t recognize him. First because the place was rather dingy and dark, but also because he was dressed in civvies that Philippe could never had attributed to his character, but then again, he had only ever seen him in suits: a t-shirt that appeared to be several sizes too big from what he saw of the V-neck, a wide shouldered (but that could just have been Emre’s shoulders), leather jacket, jeans that were too small and ended with some sort of sleekish silver, trendy combat boots. Philippe would not have been surprised at all if he’d been wearing a snapback, but perhaps Emre had sensed that this was not such an occasion, and just about refrained.

His hair looked nice, though. _Looser, but tamed now,_ Philippe thought. He was getting very attached to hints of Emre’s almost-fringe.

Emre didn’t seem at all surprised to see the booth brimming with people, and smiled at Philippe like he was really, really relieved to see him, and this was a thing that he did naturally, every day, all the time. “Hey,” he said, “My round, what do you want to drink?”

“What are you getting?” Philippe asked, hurriedly. He was very aware that everyone else was listening in to their conversation.

“Driving,” Emre explained, holding up his keys. “But don’t worry. This is an Irish pub, right? So, stout?”

“Alright,” Philippe agreed, not knowing what on earth that was. “Uh, Emre? This is Nate, and Rickie. And you know Adam.”

“Howd’ya do,” Rickie reached across the table.

“A’ight?” Nate accidentally elbowed Philippe in the head when he reached to give Emre’s hand a brief shake.

“ _Charmed_ ,again,” Adam said in a strangled voice, and Philippe wondered if he was trying not to laugh. “Hey, Rickie, will you, uh; get me another?”

All four heads swivelled to Adam’s drink. It was full.

“Please?”

“Why, me- hmmm, alright.” Philippe wondered if some discreet foot stomping had been going on under the table, as Rickie moved to push Nate out, and the Philippe; and when Philippe stood up and out of the bench he ended up awfully close to Emre’s chest and his breathing went all wheezy.

He didn’t look at him, rather internally battled with steadying his pulse.

“What’s with the nickname?” Nate asked in a low voice, once Philippe had moved in again. “Because he isn’t white and,” he squinted at Emre’s receding back, and then his eyes moved down. He broke in to the seediest grin Philippe had ever witnessed. “That sure ain’t flat.”

Philippe’s entire face burst in to flames. Adam laughed so hard he nearly threw up.

Emre returned with Philippe’s pint (black. The beer was black. Philippe decided to try and drink it anyway, out of politeness) and moved in to the booth beside him. Philippe’s lungs deflated and he forgot how to breathe in.

Emre smelled as good as he looked. Some sort of citrusy, clean smell combination of deodorant and shampoo that said he’d recently been in the shower.

This was not the time to be thinking of a sudsy Emre in the shower.

The game began on the big screen, and yet Philippe didn’t really manage to drag his mind that far from the gutter. To watch the game he had to watch past Emre’s face, the long line of his nose, how squished their bodies were to each other, that Emre had taken his jacket off, and Philippe saw the sinews hinted at the other night lead to very real biceps.

His daydream graduated to Emre at a pull-up bar.

He barely watched the game at all, apart from one, single, mortifying incident; that Adam surely deserved to be stabbed for.

“So, Philippe,” Adam had asked. “Tell me.”

Philippe surfaced just enough to register that the pause in the game was due to one of the teams had been awarded a corner.

Philippe barely remembered who was playing.

“Huh?” he asked.

“The waiter,” Adam continued, innocently. “The _Italian_ waiter,” he continued loudly, loud enough for Emre to hear and for his head to turn. Philippe searched the floor under the table for Adam’s foot to violently stomp, but it was in vain. “The one who asked you out the other night. Are you going to call him?”

Philippe, convinced he had successfully found his target on the floor; raised his foot, and brought it down with all the strength he had in his body.

Beside him, Nate howled. Adam tilted his head, and fluttered his eyelashes at Philippe, who was now trying to stab him with his eyes.

“Wait,” Emre murmured, turning to him in the seat. Difficult, and making them squish together even more. “What Italian waiter?”

His eyes were big and brown and _so confused_ and Philippe tried to answer he really did but right then the kick was taken, the ball ricocheted off a member of the mish-mash of players in the penalty area and sailed in to the back of the net, and the place erupted.

It didn’t come up again until the match was over, everyone said their goodbyes, and they stepped outside.

The bright, summers day that Philippe had left several hours ago was now over cast and miserable, with several clouds hanging low and black. He was thinking about his poor idea to put on a t-shirt this morning and the possibility of a very long wait for the bus, so he missed Emre’s question.

“What?” he asked, waving at Adam as they hopped in to Nate’s car. He hadn’t missed how hurriedly they’d ushered themselves away. He couldn’t decide if he was grateful for not, in the same way he had mixed feelings about the game being over, and actually being able to breathe again.

“I said,” Emre repeated, pulling his jacket up his arms. He popped the collar, and Philippe went weak. “Would you like a lift?”

Philippe’s heart skipped a beat. “It’s okay,” he admitted, “I’m going to get the bus. From, like, there.” He pointed at the shelter across the road.

“But,” Emre said, frowning skywards. It drew his eyes up and they looked bigger with the whites under them. “It’s going to rain.”

“Don’t worry,” Philippe replied, worrying. “It’s not going to rain.”

The largest, coldest, splodge of a raindrop chose that moment to bounce off the edge of his noise.

He yelped. Emre looked up from his watch, startled.

The heavens opened.

Philippe’s yelp turned in to a frustrated yell at the universe, he covered his head with his hands and sprinted across the road.

He only remembered Emre when he reached cover, because it was only while he was trying to wipe his face dry with his dripping shirt that he realized that he had company.

Emre shook his head dry like a dog, sending skites of water flying around the shelter and making Philippe raise his arms again to shield his face, and despite himself; laugh.

“ _Dude_ ,” he protested.

“What?” Emre broke out a grin, and his teeth were brilliantly white in the dull daylight. “It’s not like you can get any wetter.”

“Shut up,” Philippe was clutching his sides. He didn’t even know why he was laughing so hard. “Ow,” he said, to the stitch forming on his side.

Emre was smoothing his hair back from his face, giggling to himself. Water obviously had a negative effect on whatever abrasive agent he used to keep his hair up, because it continued to fall down on his face in a giant floppy mess, and they both just laughed harder.

“Here,” Emre said eventually, as Philippe began wringing out his t-shirt. “That waiter.”

“What waiter?” Philippe had forgotten, distracted by all the monsooning.

“Did he ask you out at the restaurant the other night?” Emre was fiddling with the zip on his jacket, and staring determinedly in the direction of his shoes. “When I couldn’t make it?”

“Uh,” Philippe wasn’t prepared for this moment, “he felt sorry for me? And don’t,” he continued, when Emre groaned and pushed his hair back a little more forcefully, “it’s not like I haven’t accepted your apology at least four times at this stage.”

Emre let out a long sigh, and suddenly looked thoroughly disappointed in himself.

“Is it weird,” he said, looking like he was fighting with himself internally, “ _would_ it be weird, if I asked you to… wait a bit?”

Philippe froze. He felt his jaw drop.

For a second, he could have sworn that Emre _blushed_.

“Why?” He eventually managed the syllable, even though he hiccupped in the middle of it.

Emre’s cheeks were definitely going red now, Philippe had looked at him enough to know. Just a light dusting of pink at the very sharpest angle of his cheekbones.

“I just… want a bit longer to figure you out.” Emre rubbed the edge of his thumb along the corner of his lip, an almost unfairly unconscious way to focus Philippe’s entire attention on it.

It took a second. Maybe longer than a second, because the rain hammering against the roof of the bus shelter was very distracting from thoughts he wasn’t sure how to connect.

But then.

Emre was trying to _figure him out_. Emre was _getting mixed signals from Philippe_. Like, as if the blushing, the stammering, the oogling, the free coffee, the excusing. _Like that wasn’t being clear enough_.

“So, like,” he cleared his throat. “Is it weird, if I ask you to stop fixing your hair, because I like it better that way?”

Emre paused with his hand mid-way through reflexively sweeping his hair back again. It was truly sopping, like sooty seaweed.

“What?” he asked.

Philippe’s previous statement had also probably been his most forward one, ever in his whole life, so he wasn’t really sure what on earth to do next. His body, however, made that decision for him: there was maybe half a step between them, and he reached out to tug Emre’s hair back down over his eyes again.

He didn’t even manage to make it that far, because Emre’s free hand closed around his cheek, and Philippe settled for clasping tight around his neck when they, somehow, with total lack of co-ordination, kissed.

But it was fine. It was fine because Emre lifted his lips only the tiniest bit from Philippe’s to fit their mouths together at a better angle, and through the crack his eyes had opened he saw long lashes and the lines in the skin under Emre’s eyes. His hand grasped higher, in to the thinly-shorn hair at the top of Emre’s neck.

Emre made a small surprised noise and Philippe felt his arm wind around his back, his breath from his nose against his face. He heard the sigh, too; even through the thunder of the rain on the shelter roof.

 He especially heard the squeal of brakes and familiar groan of the city bus as its doors squealed open.

Philippe lifted- tore- his lips from Emre’s and blinked in surprise: blinked at Emre’s flaming irises and the droplet of water making its way down one strand of hair, and then blinked at the open door of the bus and thinking maybe he should do something about it.

“Shit,” he yipped, letting go. “ _Shit!_ ”

He made it on to the deck of the bus in two leaps, gasping like he’d been drowning.

He only thought about leaving Emre behind when the bus had already turned the corner, which was strange, because he hadn’t really stopped thinking about kissing him yet.

_Emre kissed me._

He let out a delighted noise as he clung to one of the support poles. Clung to it like he’d clung to Emre.

But without the _kissing_.

He grinned. He grinned and grinned and grinned. Beamed, even. He could feel himself doing it, knew it because he accidentally beamed at a few pensioners on the seats beside him and they beamed right back.

In fact, he even got off a stop early, so that ten extra minutes in the rain would- literally- dampen his spirits back to unsuspicious levels by the time he’d arrived home

It didn’t.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. “We're just trying to figure out the guy who got the office heartthrob."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is four months late and was like pulling teeth. Over-dorkification of Philippe continues.

Philippe guessed that his mother had followed the large puddle stretching from the front door to the kitchen when, eventually, she located him shivering in front of the slowest boiling kettle, ever.

“Ma,” he whined, when she surprised him by dropping a towel across his shoulders. She gave him a small smile, which he returned, because his mood was still at Level: Rainbows and Unicorns. “Want tea?”

“Did you enjoy the football game?” she asked. “And sure.”

“Yeah,” Philippe grinned. And _grinned_. “The football was good.”

* * *

 

He stripped in the laundry room and hugged his mug with his hands before he pulled on his pyjamas. He slithered in under his bed covers before he allowed himself to be swallowed up completely by his thoughts.

 _Emre_ _kissed me_. He thought, again and again, and then, on the millionth time: _like, on_ purpose.

Then he frowned.

Was it on purpose, though? Obviously, “yeah, I tripped and fell on your mouth” was traditionally the lamest excuse, but. Well, that was sort of what happened.

 _No_ , he told himself forcefully.

He wondered if Emre should have texted him already.

He thought about it for a further two seconds, before he leapt back out of bed, out in to the kitchen.

“What are you doing back so soon?” His mother asked, slightly stunned.

He lifted his phone off the counter, where he’d fished it out of his pants before he’d pulled them off. He ran his thumb across the screen to unlock it. It buzzed in his hand once, before it flickered- the colours of the screen going vibrant, then static- and died.

He let out a cry of anguish and pressed down on the home button with force, tried unlocking it again, tried turning it on.

“What?” he choked. _No, no, no,_ no.

“It’s probably just wet,” his mother said. “Well,” she continued, when he looked up at her in total horror. “You did just get absolutely drenched.”

Philippe dived for the cupboard, yanking out the first packet of rice he could close his fist around.

“What are you doing?” He ignored the query, dumping the rice in to a bowl, and burying his phone in it.

“ _No_ ,” he moaned to the bowl of rice. “ _Nooooo_.”

His mother shrugged, and left the room, leaving Philippe staring in to space, wondering why on earth the universe would fuck him over so badly.

* * *

 

Philippe, having imagined that he would be up all night in a panicky, cold sweat; miraculously: slept. The phone situation was no better over breakfast.

“Useless rice,” he muttered, poking at it; his phone just as lifeless as the night before.

It was, then, completely surprising when the first person to walk in the door right after his shift started was exactly who he’d needed the rice-ridden phone to work for.

“Emre?” he choked.

“Hey,” Emre said, pausing in the threshold- pushing against the glass of the door with spread fingers. Philippe hadn’t known the guy for all that long, but he couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever seen him like this. He looked weird, like he’d wandered into the wrong shop.

“Uh,” Philippe looked down suddenly. He was drying a mug a little too weakly. “Hi.”

For a couple of seconds he stared at the mug, and then he looked up again.

Emre hadn’t moved a muscle.

“You _can_ come in,” Philippe said, with a very casual _duh_ attitude that he most definitely was not feeling.

Emre’s fingers slid from the glass pane of the door with a squeak, and he shoved them in to his trouser pockets as he walked inside. There was, however, now a definite looseness to the girth of his shoulders.

“Hey,” he said again, softer now; as he padded towards the counter. Philippe couldn’t help but dart a glance behind him as he approached, despite the distinct feeling he had that Emre was trying to make eye contact. “About yesterday.” ‘Nay a customer in sight, thank God. Philippe wondered how long that would last. How much longer _this situation_ would last, this situation that still had oh-so-much potential to be awkward.

“What?” he asked belatedly, when it dawned on him that Emre had spoken; a little panicky.

Emre slowed, possibly misinterpreting Philippe’s perplexed squeak as sudden uneasiness.

“Yesterday,” he said softly. “You know. After the game. What happened in the bus shelter.”

“Yeah,” Philippe croaked. He was clinging tightly to the mug, now. He just couldn’t deal with suspense.

Emre paused. Philippe felt the need to shift his weight to his other foot. He looked up.

“I’m sorry?” Emre tried. And he looked sorry. And Philippe’s heart sank.

“It’s okay,” Philippe said. “It’s okay if it was an accident.” _Not._

Emre looked surprised for a second, as if it was the last thing he’d expected Philippe to say.

“It wasn’t an accident,” he said. Slowly, his eyebrows drew together in complete and utter confusion.

The back of Philippe’s throat went very, very dry and he felt the back of his neck get very, very warm.

“Um,” he croaked, completely stuck. “Um,” he said again, looking around the shop, for ideas; for anywhere that wasn’t the tense line of Emre’s shoulders that were waiting for him to say something far more explanatory.

“Uh,” he said eventually. “I was about to make some coffee.” Wow, that sounded calmer than he felt. “Would you like some?”

Emre paused. Clearly, a change of subject was not what he was expecting to hear. But then Philippe held out the now very shiny mug and tilted it clumsily in his direction (Philippe wasn’t sure if he was going for a toast or he was indicating that it was his, but it was now far too late), and Emre _smiled_ and said “yeah, okay”.

Philippe couldn’t believe his luck, and bit down on his tongue to stop himself babbling. _I’ve just started my shift!_ Was something he wanted to say; _I don’t think I’ll ever forget your order for as long as I live!_ Was another. He just wanted to talk and talk and talk, now that Emre was here and they’d reached this weird, relieved middle ground where they seemed to silently agree to half-ignore what had happened.

But instead he didn’t say anything.

This was mostly because Emre seemed to have sensed Philippe’s anxiety level drop, and he had moved closer to the counter.

“Is it normally this quiet in the morning?” Emre asked. He ran his thumb along the edge of the surface, tracing the grooves in the wood with the edge of his nail. Philippe, too late, realised that he’d paused to watch. “I would have thought this place would be flooded this early.”

“It’ll get busy in the next hour,” Philippe said. “Right before nine. This is not really the place for prompt people in the morning.”

“Except me,” Emre said.

“You’re annoying about it,” Philippe shot back. “You get here almost before I do. Isn’t there something else you can do in the morning besides come here at seven? Hold on a sec, this is going to get loud.”

The coffee grinder roared to life, briefly interrupting what had almost been a tension-free attempt at conversation. Philippe decided most of the tension was due to all this doubt as to whether or not they could kiss again.

 _But how to bring_ that _up?_

He rather hoped that this would go in the direction of all their other meetings in the shop. Namely, that there would be some sort of promise that he’d see Emre again: date, football match, or otherwise. Emre was turning in to a rather nice part of his routine.

“That _was_ loud,” Emre said unhelpfully, looking a bit pained.

Philippe snorted and ducked down to search for the milk in the back of the fridge. When he straightened again, he frowned: Emre was no longer directly in his line of vision across the counter.

He looked around, trying to ignore a weird stab of panic, and nearly dropped the milk carton when he found Emre had rounded the end of the counter and was now lingering with a look of almost-curiosity on his face.

“What are you doing?” Philippe demanded, less shaken up with surprise then by the fact that there was no longer that safe, physical barrier of the between them and now he could see how Emre’s waist gently tapered off towards his hips when he wore that shirt. “Uh, customers aren’t allowed in the work area. It’s a health and safety thing.”

 _That is a good shirt!_ His brain roared.

“My boss with kill me,” he continued, when this information didn’t seem to make Emre any more inclined to retreat.

“What?” Emre asked, his eyes scanning the syrup shelf like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. He blinked at Philippe, confused.

Philippe decided, faced with those horrendously long lashes; that Emre could stay. “Nothing,” he mumbled, as Emre moved up beside him.

“There’s a lot of noise involved in industrial coffee making,” Emre observed, loudly; over the sound of the steam from the machine.

“And you’ve been here _how_ many times before?” Philippe shot back.

“Just an observation,” Emre said, and Philippe saw him grinning out of the corner of his rolling eyes.

“Well, then go observe somewhere else. Almost done,” Philippe promised. He didn’t know when he’d become this snarky. Maybe it was a panic response.

Either way, Emre seemed to enjoy it.

Despite this, Emre did not move; instead angling his hip to the edge of the counter. “Why are you putting it in a take-away mug?” he asked. “Is that a hint?”

He was still smiling- actually more of a knowing smirk ( _flirting,_ Philippe’s brain suggested)- but it didn’t stop Philippe from panicking. Again.

“Uh, yeah,” he said. “Well, you look busy,” he tried, “and also, it’s less washing up for me.”

Emre shrugged and then his gaze paused at some place over Philippe’s shoulder, making Philippe swing around to look back out the window.

He hadn’t been kidding. Jordan probably _would_ kill him if he arrived to find Emre here, behind the most sacred counter, and Philippe slacking off.

So he did the first thing that came in to his head, and ducked down to sit on the tiles.

“What?” Emre exclaimed, and Philippe swallowed loudly, and looked up.

“Can you pass me my coffee?” he asked, to the now towering pillar that finished in a very clear view of the underside of Emre’s almost-goatee and two chins from tucking them in to look at Philippe.

Emre looked at him for a long second. Philippe was still trying to figure out his expression – _Is this it? Have I officially weirded him out? Finally?_ – when he shrugged, and lifted the two cups from the worktop above Philippe’s head, his long legs folding neatly as he slid down to rest on the floor beside him.

“When do you have to start work?” Philippe asked.

Emre had just taken a long sip of his coffee and coughed.

“You’re so eager to get rid of me this morning,” he spluttered in to the back of his hand.

“Sorry,” Philippe said hurriedly. “No, I promise I’m not.” He shifted closer, so the edge of his thigh could nudge one of Emre’s crossed knees for emphasis.

Emre now laughed and coughed, wiping tears from his eyes. Philippe swiped his cup from his hands in alarm, thinking of the floor and how he’d just mopped behind here, for crying out loud.

“Thanks,” Emre said hoarsely, when he’d find caught his breath. He motioned for the cup back, and his fingers briefly pulled on Philippe’s when he took it his hands.

Philippe mumbled something that could have been “you’re welcome”, and looked at the floor that he’d just saved.

“Your friends are cool,” Emre began, and Philippe looked at him quickly because, somehow, for ten whole seconds he had actually forgotten about the football game at the weekend.

“Oh,” Philippe said. “Yeah, I guess.”

Emre raised an incredulous eyebrow. “You _guess_?”

“I mean,” Philippe stumbled, lurched on, “they’re fine.” He skipped the part where he wasn’t quite sure of how to punish Adam for his particular brand of abandonment the moment the game ended, and that, apart from Adam; they weren’t even his friends. “Yeah,” he finished, realising gloomily that he actually had no friends. “They’ll do.”

Emre looked at him sceptically for a second over the brim of his cup.

Philippe prepared to speak again- no doubt to only dig a deeper hole for himself- when Emre said, “listen,” then stopped.

Philippe’s heart skipped a beat. From what he knew due to dodgy daytime TV soap operas, “listen” was only one iota better than “we have to talk”.

Typical. This thing was over before it had even started. It was nice of him to do it face-to-face, at least.

Philippe then remembered that his phone was broken, so this was the only available medium anyway.

Emre cleared his throat, and concentrated totally on swirling the coffee around his cup; Philippe guessed to catch the foam on the edges.

“Oh my God,” Philippe gasped suddenly, “what.”

“Well,” Emre said, and he smiled, obviously to reassure Philippe, whose palms had started to seriously sweat. “I was wondering if you wanted to meet _my_ friends?”

“ _Your_ friends?” Philippe asked, and it came out a little too like: _you_ have _friends?_

“The guys from work,” Emre elaborated. “We’re having a thing this Wednesday.”

“A thing,” Philippe echoed.

“Like an after work party.”

“Oh.” Philippe thought. “Like, _all_ of your friends? At the same time? A _party_?”

Emre shrugged and drained his cup. Philippe noted not to make him the small serving again, because Emre didn’t seem to be able to get value for money from it.

“Okay,” Philippe said, pushing all anxious thoughts about being awkward while also meeting a very large amount of probably very cool people at the same time. “I’ll come.”

Emre smiled, suddenly, and with all of his teeth; it was brilliant enough to almost make Philippe flinch backwards, then he leaned forward suddenly and caught Philippe’s face in his hands, bringing their mouths together- this time with absolute, unmistakeable intent.

Philippe was so shocked, he almost jolted back out of the kiss too. But in those first few closed Emre’s palms had closed firmly over his cheeks and instead Philippe could only tip forward and so, accidentally very enthusiastically kissed Emre right back.

This time, it was certainly not accidental, or even mildly platonic: Philippe’s fist latched on to the front of Emre’s shirt and they both seemed to move so they could be closer; Philippe didn’t even notice that the bottom of his hip sat very painfully against the linoleum floor- twisting unconsciously for a better angle.

That was, until someone coughed, making them peel apart. And it was difficult- for what felt like ages (but really was about two seconds), neither his lips nor Emre’s seemed inclined to become unstuck, and when they did; Philippe’s fist still resolutely fastened itself to the front of Emre’s shirt.

Jordan coughed again as he looked down at them over the counter, and frowned.

“Shit,” Philippe squeaked. “I’m sacked.”

Emre _giggled_. Philippe had to pause for a second, just to register the “ _hee, hee”_ sound and the fact someone of Emre’s stature could make it.

“Oh my God,” he said, to Emre. Emre made the noise again.

“Hey,” he murmured, low enough probably so he thought Jordan couldn’t hear. Philippe knew that Emre had little to no experience of being around Jordan, and so could not possible know of his bat-like hearing, but anyway. “So, Wednesday?”

“Uh,” Philippe said, “okay.” Anything to make Emre get out of here before Jordan got mad, which was imminent, Philippe could tell; the tops of his ears were staring to go red. He suddenly realised that his hands were still sitting on Emre’s chest. “ _Get,_ ” he said, giving Emre a shove.

Emre didn’t look annoyed about it, in fact, if anything was annoying it was how annoyingly charming he looked- his lips dragging along his teeth as he broke in to a slow grin, standing up.

“Bye, mate,” he said, and Philippe saw him pat a bemused Jordan on the arm while Philippe himself was scrambling very desperately to his feet.

“What was _that_?” Jordan asked, as the door of the shop swung closed.

“Uh,” Philippe said. “I think… I think he just asked me out again. I mean. I mean yesterday we kissed by accident, and today we kissed on purpose, and now he wants me to meet his friends and…” he took a deep breath, realising that he was accidentally running out of air, “I mean I want to think that this means something but-“

“Phil,” Jordan cut across him. “I meant why on _earth_ was a customer behind _my counter_?”

* * *

 

 “Are you worried?” Emre asked.

“No,” Philippe lied.

Wednesday had arrived so goddamn fast. All he’d had to prepare for it was yesterday, when Emre had come in before closing time to have his coffee.

_“To see you,” Jordan had said._

_“Nah,” Philippe had replied. “Coffee.”_

He was now watching the bouncer at the end of the line in to the bar with unease.

It would be so _typical_ if he was ID-ed tonight. Any smidgeon of coolness would be gone in a second. He wished he could say that it didn’t happen often, but at 5”7 and with barely a hint of facial hair, Philippe was always singled out by security staff.

And yeah. There was the bit where Philippe had to meet a lot of people in a short space of time.

“Don’t worry about it,” Emre said, obviously doing that annoying mind-reading thing again. “They’re just curious about who I hang out with after work all the time.”

Yesterday, Adam had told Philippe to take the coffee over to one of the tables.

_“But I’m working.”_

_“I don’t care. You wanna have a relationship with this guy? You need to_ talk _to the guy_.”

Philippe didn’t want to talk to him. Philippe wanted to make out with him. But Philippe did it anyway.

 “Why,” Philippe shot back, in the present. He nudged playfully in to Emre’s side. “Who you hang out with all the time, eh? Do you talk about me a lot?”

Emre just sort of smiled down at him; eyes glinting, lips stretching like something was funny, but nothing funny enough to show teeth about.

Philippe huffed and shifted from foot to foot, craning around the line again to look at how the queue was advancing. It wasn’t. He huffed again. He felt kind of petulant, but it would probably be wrong to pretend he wasn’t in a mood. And even though at this stage Emre was probably used to it (to the point where he didn’t appear perturbed by Grumpy Philippe in the slightest, not that he ever had been) he should probably get it out of his system before he met anyone too impressionable.

 _“Listen”,_ Adam had said, after. _“You know what’s funny?”_ Even now, Philippe didn’t think it was funny. _“I can totally tell he’s in to you. It’s_ obvious _. But I can’t tell if you’re in to him. You’re meeting his friends- this is a_ thing _Phillippe. You need to show him that_ you’re _in to him.”_

 _“I_ am _.”_

 _“_ I _know that. But you need to show_ him.”

“ _How_?”

Emre’s arm reached to scratch the back of his neck. Philippe felt a weird ache when he realised he’d rather been hoping Emre would drop it back again around Philippe’s shoulders.

“They’re really good guys,” Emre tried.

“Right,” Philippe said. “Cool,” he added, overly casual. Why was he so nervous? He was just meeting some other guys, right? It wasn’t like he was being _presented_ or anything. He and Emre weren’t _really_ dating.

But Emre was super close to him. Emre was super close to him right now like he hadn’t been yesterday across the café table, while Philippe lamely had asked how his day had been.

“Right,” Emre agreed. He shifted, and his fingers brushed suddenly against Philippe’s. Something about the touch made him jolt; made him shiver more when tingling warmth spread across his back.

Philippe wanted to take his hand.

Maybe it had been an accident. Maybe Emre hadn’t meant to touch him like that. Maybe Emre didn’t want to be seen holding hands with the guy-that-he-wasn’t- _really-_ dating-not-yet-maybe.

Philippe looked up. Emre was frowning.

“Your hands are cold,” he said.

“Yes,” Philippe replied, dryly. Then he took a deep breath and reached for Emre’s hand.

It didn’t quite work out. Their fingers tangled all wrong, and then when Philippe began to panic; Emre ended up taking charge and sorting everything out; taking Philippe’s hand in his two and spreading it so it worked, with a very amused expression on his face that Philippe resented automatically.

Great. Really romantic. Really smooth.

He looked up at Emre: because they hadn’t been this close since, well. And right now they were pretty close.

And Emre looked down at him. His head tilted and he narrowed his eyes.

“What?” he asked.

The line moved forward and Emre moved with it, catching Philippe by surprise and making him trip forward slightly.

“Nothing,” he gasped, grabbing on to the edge of Emre’s too-long t-shirt and glancing down at the cobbles to be sure of his footing.

Inhaling was difficult. Emre had smelled so nice, and Philippe had been briefly close enough to see all of the definition of the facial hair that had dusted Emre’s upper lip. And Emre’s lips.

“What?” Emre asked again.

 _You need to_ show _him._

“Uh,” Philippe started. _I really want to kiss you._

“ID, please,” the bouncer said.

* * *

 

Philippe had expected Emre’s friends to be, well, like Emre. On reflection, he wasn’t quite sure what that had meant. It wasn’t that he’d expected them to be an army of Emre’s, but he had kind of thought they’d be cool like him.

As it turned out, they were massive dorks.

Philippe had literally just managed to get in the door- hadn’t even had enough time to get a feel for the place, apart from recognising that it was far too dark and that he would definitely hate the music- when three faces popped up directly in front of them. They were all very brown and sporting similar haircuts; one had a smiggy beard, one looked awed and one looked _delighted_.

“Philippe,” Emre began. “This is Daniel, Jordan and Joe.”

“Call me Studge,” said the surprised one.

“Call me Ibe,” said the bearded one.

“… I answer to both Joe and Gomez,” the delighted one finished.

“Behave, guys,” Emre said, in a defensive tone Philippe had never had occasion before to hear him use. “This is Philippe.”

“Philippe,” Studge repeated, grinning in a rather dastardly fashion.

“Hi,” Philippe said, with difficulty; shaking each of their hands in turn. “Yeah, I’m Philippe. Just Philippe.”

“I see,” Ibe said. They all side-eyed each other, very obviously.

 “Please,” Emre said. “Just let us _sit down_ first”.

Philippe thought too long about the _us_. In fact, he thought about it just until they reached the steps to one of the booths- suede, dark couches and funky cushions, elevated about a foot up from the dancefloor, set in a wide square- and Emre pressed his hand to Philippe’s back as they walked up the steps; and when they reached the top- he left it there.

“Hey, _guys_ ,” Studge called, over the music: which wasn’t just quite loud enough to be a proper affront to Philippe’s ears. “This is _Philippe_ ,” and the half a dozen or so people already sitting turned to face him.

Emre’s hand was still there. Just lingering, just below the bottom edge of Philippe’s shoulder blades, just enough so Philippe felt it.

Philippe had to admit it appeared to be a bit possessive, the whole touchy-touchy thing. And he also had to admit, faced with this sudden crowd of strangers, that he kind of really liked Emre’s hand being there.

Emre hadn’t swung his arm around his shoulder, or held his hand, or anything grossly smelling of PDA. Just the hand on his back, just to lift him.

Or maybe Philippe was reading too much in to it, and Emre had become so well acquainted with Philippe’s clumsiness that he had a genuine fear of Philippe tripping and falling back down the steps?

“Martin,” the guy next to Philippe when he slid on to the seat held out his hand. He looked kind of scary- bald and tattooed and very deep creases between his eyebrows; and then he smiled, and Philippe didn’t worry any more.

“Simon,” the guy next to him again reached down past Martin, reaching- making Philippe realise just how short his own arms were.

“Right,” Philippe replied, almost losing track of names, already.

“I’ll be back,” Emre interrupted briefly, finally lifting his hand from Philippe’s back. Philippe mourned its absence almost immediately.

“Uh, okay,” he had just about time to say, before he was distracted by Studge: “So, _Philippe:_ where are you from?”

Philippe looked around the circle of people paying very close attention to him and realised that he didn’t know who half of them were.

“Well,” he began, uncertainly, “here, I guess.”

“Ah!” Joe said. “A local.”

“Well,” Philippe said. “Yeah.”

Simon looked at Martin. Ibe muttered something to Studge. Philippe began to sweat.

“What do you do?” Joe asked, and Philippe was unreasonably thankful for Joe.

“Well, during term I study Psychology in the city,” he replied, “and you?” he asked, too late.

They all looked at each other.

“We work with Emre; bro,” Ibe said.

“Okay,” Philippe replied, lamely.

This was going swimmingly. Not. Philippe wished Emre could come back, mostly so he could strangle him for ditching him- for the bar, apparently. Philippe allowed himself a quick look.

Last Sunday hadn’t even been this awkward for Emre, right?

When he looked back the rest of the group had broken out in to smaller conversations; apart from the same three: Studge, Ibe and Joe- still looking at him with fascination.

“Sorry,” Ibe said, when Philippe jumped at the intensity of their stares.

“We’re just trying to figure out the guy who got the office heartthrob,” Studge said.

“I haven’t _got_ anyone,” Philippe protested.

“What do you think?” Studge said, ignoring him. “I, mean, look at his giant Malteaser eyes. One look and Emre could do nothing about it. Smitten.”

They all squinted at him. Philippe was desperately thinking of a retort, a comeback, a defence; and then all of their stares suddenly fixed at a point above Philippe’s head.

Philippe almost broke his neck, he turned it so fast. And then- overwhelming relief: Emre was back.

“Hi,” Emre said, moving it beside Philippe. Like really close to Philippe. “Have you guys been torturing him?”

“No,” the three of them sang, in unison.

“Yes,” Philippe said, at the same time.

“I believe you,” Emre said, smiling at him.

Philippe was vaguely aware of the others bursting in to whispers.

“They like to be known as the Three Musketeers,” Emre said, in a low voice, leaning in towards Philippe’s ear. Philippe was extra super aware of every millimetre between Emre’s mouth and his skin.

“Well,” he replied, in what he hoped was a composed fashion, “I was thinking more like; Tweedledum and Tweedledee, but, you know. Three of them.”

Emre snorted when he laughed. His eyes were nice and crinkly, when he covered his mouth with his hand to stop quell the giggles.

 _Smitten_. Was that an adjective Philippe should start considering for himself?

“Anyway,” he continued; to distract himself, “what are you drinking?” he pulled the beer bottle to him by the coaster it was sitting on.

“Dunkel,” Emre said. “It’s a German beer.”

Philippe nearly gagged as he swallowed. “It’s offensive to my senses,” he choked. “Why do you drink such disgusting things?”

“It’s not disgusting,” Emre said, teasing it back out of Philippe’s hand. “It’s delicious. Plus, you make all my coffee- you just insulted yourself.”

Philippe was still struggling to get his breath back. “I restrict,” he held up one accusatory finger, “that description to alcoholic beverages,” and then he started coughing again, and had to take some more of Emre’s beer to calm his throat. He truly thought he was going to be sick.

Emre looked as though his hand clamped down over his mouth was the only thing keeping his composure intact.

“This is boring,” Studge said suddenly. “Let’s dance! Come on Philippe!”

“No,” Philippe said, still choking slightly. “I do _not_ dance.” Well, in public. At home in front of his mirror was a different story.

“Now you do,” Emre said, somewhere beside him.

“No, really,” Philippe protested, “I _don’t_.” Studge reached across the table and latched on to his elbow as he stood up.

“ _C’mon_ ,” he said. “Don’t be dry. We are literally going to base all of our opinions on you on how you react to this in the next three seconds.”

“ _Studge,”_ Emre said, somewhat despairingly.

“We _are,_ ” Joe complained.

Philippe shrank back, politely. “No thanks,” he said firmly. As he hit the back of the couch, he felt Emre’s arm hang around his shoulder; his fingers just reaching down to curl around the top of Philippe’s arm.

“You heard the guy,” he said. “Scram.”

Such a declaration by Emre must have been truly terrifying, but Studge just threw back his head and let out a massive, evil cackle. Then he followed the others down the stairs.

“Excuse me,” Martin said politely, indicating that he’d like to get out past Philippe. Philippe drew his knees in, and all that it meant was that he was moving closer in to Emre.

“We can take a hint,” said the other one, Simon; following. Then he did something that Philippe had not expected for someone so deadpan. He _winked_.

“Is it true?” Emre asked, as they all left. “That you really don’t dance?”

Philippe, still wedged in under Emre’s arm, thought of a million smart responses to that- among the _yes, no, maybe you’ll just have to find out,_ Adam’s voice was there: telling Philippe that he would have to show Emre that he liked him.

So, he just grinned, in what must have been a supremely stupid fashion; and flung his free arm around Emre’s neck to kiss him.

It was like picking up where they’d left off: the exact same kiss that they’d shared two days ago on the shop floor. Philippe wasn’t certain where this whole thing was going- never mind that he could barely get words out when he was around Emre; but he’d also been a clear disappointment to his friends, and there was so much weird feeling about what the hell this was- when he and Emre started to kiss; to _really_ kiss, like they were now: moving swiftly and sweetly from shut lips to grabby hands and open mouths… he just didn’t care.

Emre was just this phenomenal kisser. It wasn’t like Philippe had had a lot of practice recently as such, in order to know. Emre didn’t _lead_ or anything, but he made it like this was about the two of them. Philippe felt a hand on his waist draw him in closer.

They were interrupted- _again, oh my god, why doesn’t the universe want this_ , Philippe thought, surprisingly viciously- by a weird crashing noise, and surfaced to see Ibe and Studge standing at the edge of the table, and what looked like traces of beer dribbling towards the edge.

“Looks like dancing,” Ibe said.

“Looks like _fun_ dancing,” Studge agreed.

“Did you _knock a glass_ off the table?” Emre asked, in an exasperated tone that Philippe knew; because he used it quite often on Adam.

Culpability was etched on every line of their smirking faces, and they scampered off; Philippe could hear them snickering as they fled.

Emre sighed and ran a hand through his hair- the hand that had been across the back of the chair, and around Philippe’s neck. “Sorry,” he said, when Philippe looked at him. If he was implying that this was weird, it was anything but- at this distance Philippe felt more comfortable than at any point in the last two weeks.

Maybe this had been the problem. Maybe he should have been all over Emre from the beginning.

“I’m sorry,” Emre added, again, after several seconds of silence where he glared after his friend’s receding backs. “That they’re so…”

“Keen?” Philippe tried, supressing laughter.

“ _Annoying_.”

“They aren’t,” Philippe said. “They’re very nice.”

Emre snorted, and finally looked at Philippe. Then he looked at Philippe’s lips.

“I think I’m ready to dance now,” Philippe said, although it came out like a whisper. Emre’s eyebrows drew together in confusion, the sat in a straight line across his forehead and Philippe laughed like there was no air left in his lungs.

“But-“, Emre started.

“Come on,” Philippe said, giddy. He dragged Emre down to the dancefloor by the inside of his elbow. His skin was so soft under Philippe’s fingers, and he was surprisingly susceptible to being lead.

Philippe pulled him in to the thickening crowd on the dancefloor, right to the middle; other bodies pushing them together; and they both reached: Philippe drew Emre to him when his hands fastened on Emre’s hips, Emre ran his hands around Philippe’s cheeks and brought him up to his face.

Several millennia passed, and Philippe closed his eyes. There was something electrifying about this- being close enough to feel Emre’s breath and every groove of his body and not kiss, the ebb and flow and heave of the people around them like a slow tide, vaguely, _vaguely_ being aware of the beat of the music somewhere far, far away.

Kissing was a natural progression, so seamlessly natural that Philippe didn’t even remember it starting. It was different than before, there was more of an intensity to it now, a purpose; and Philippe couldn’t be entirely sure that he wasn’t behind it- with his arms now locked around Emre’s back, and Emre’s hips aligned with his. They were even dancing- swaying slightly to the music that could barely make it in past the adrenalin slamming through Philippe’s ears.

Emre’s fingers curled in to the back of Philippe’s neck, scratching at the base of Philippe’s hairline every time his body shifted closer; and the top of Philippe’s spine arched in response- kissing deeper.

Time did not exist. There was only Emre. Only once did Philippe come up for air, and Emre’s mouth moved to his neck, the fuzz along his jaw scratchy enough to be pleasant. And then Emre used his teeth, and Philippe yelped.

“Ow!” he said, angry, but still laughing. He rubbed his palm off his throbbing neck. “Ow,” he said again, “you _bit_ me.”

Emre was grinning. “That’s sort of how it works,” he said.

“Yeah,” Philippe could barely get breath in between his giggles, “but it _hurt_.” The skin still throbbed under his hand, and Emre was already nosing back in to his mouth- the rhythm of the kiss now matching the pulse of the sore spot, that was also weirdly matching the pulse of his- oh.

“I need to pee,” Philippe said abruptly, cutting Emre off again. “I, uh,” he had to shout to be heard; throwing his arms around Emre’s neck to get closer to his ear. “Stay here,” he said, “don’t _move_ ,” and his slammed their lips together one last time for emphasis; and then he pushed through the crowd and practically skipped to the bathroom.

 _Relief,_ he thought, when he zipped his pants back up, all of the pressure gone from his bladder. The light over the mirror at the sink was alarmingly bright, Philippe felt like he was waking up from a weirdly deep sleep as he washed his hands.

In the mirror, he almost didn’t recognise himself. His eyes weren’t normally this wide, right? And, oh God: his cheeks were red, his ears were red, the area around his lips looked slightly raw- even his _neck_  had traces of blush on it, and then there was the area of pinched skin where Emre had left his mark.

Philippe was examining it- rather proudly, actually- and absently tracing it with one of his fingers, when the door in to the men’s opened again, and someone walked in that Philippe had, over the last several days; completely forgotten to add into the equation. Someone who made his reflection freeze, made his mind go blank.

“ _Hey,”_ Dejan said, spreading his arms. “It’s Philippe, right?”

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. "Enamoured. Charmed. Whatever. By you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've put together a quick playlist of songs I've listened to while writing this and you can find it [here](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLcyI4ptjxMsoqfzTCoDKEIRyaqWxqqxBm)

 

 

 

Philippe hadn’t _entirely_ forgotten about Dejan. Dejan still came into the shop every day for his coffee.

Philippe had sort of just been too distracted to pay much attention to his features recently. Or even pay any attention to him at all.

And suddenly he was here, stumbling across the men’s bathroom in this unfamiliar club; wearing loose jeans and a v-neck and enveloping Philippe in a very beery hug.

Philippe did wonder; if this had happened a few weeks ago, he probably would already have died at this sort of attention from Dejan. As it was, he kind of thought: _yuck, he is_ drunk.

“Oh, hey,” he managed, wondering if it was too late to pretend that he didn’t know who it was, in case he was lumped with making inebriated conversation. “Hum, how are you?”

“You make my coffee,” Dejan mumbled, still hugging him.

“Uh,” Philippe said. “Not _really,_ ” he patted Dejan on the back, awkwardly.

“You are so,” Dejan was still hugging him, “ _great_.”

“Okay,” Philippe said. Then he made an attempt to wriggle free, just so thoroughly uncomfortable with this invasion of his personal space. He really thought he’d made it when Dejan turned his head and pushed a giant, sloppy kiss onto Philippe’s mouth.

“ _Nurgh_ ,” Philippe said, flailing backwards in alarm.

Dejan didn’t seem the least perturbed when Philippe made disgusted, whimpering noises as he wiped his face dry of spit. “So _great_ ,” he sighed, kissing-wetting Philippe’s ear this time. “D’ya know what we should do? We should go dance. Let’s go _dance_!”

Philippe pulled his sleeve up over his hand, to pat himself dry. “Don’t you have to pee, or something?” he offered, weakly, searching for a reason to get rid of him and remembering his sudden arrival in the bathroom. _No more dancing._

Dejan, midway through dragging Philippe across the room by the wrist, paused. Then he frowned. “Oh yeah,” he said, hazily. “Wait here! _Stay_ ,” he warned, waggling a finger at Philippe as he disappeared behind a toilet stall door.

Philippe hesitated for a second, slightly shell-shocked, before he ran.

He was still using his shirt as a towel when he came across Emre, as promised, exactly where he’d left him. He offered no explanation when he dove under his arm.

“Welcome back,” Emre said, clearly slightly taken aback by the Philippe’s urgency to tuck himself right in beside him. Actually, it was to hide, but Philippe sure hoped that Emre was interpreting it the first way.

“Hey,” Philippe offered, a little breathless from running, and still feeling slightly violated. He was about to add, _you’ll never guess who I just met in the bathroom_ , before he realised that Emre had no idea who Dejan was, and that explanation would lead in to _why_ Philippe knew him and… yes. Not such a good idea.

So, instead, he tried to smile.

Emre’s arm slid around him firmly, finishing in a squeeze that made Philippe’s chest lift and head clear. And then Emre’s face loosened and his gaze dropped and Philippe realised what was coming; and then he realised that he had just been slobbered on by someone else, and turned away from the kiss just in time, coughing like it was an excuse.

“Are you alright?” Emre asked, his breath warm against his ear and just soft enough to still be heard over the noise of the dancefloor.

“I don’t know,” Philippe answered, not taking the time to fully process his reply, and regretting it. He opened his mouth to explain away with he felt Emre’s arm go slack- _it’s not you it’s not you it’s_ definitely not _you_ \- when something that wasn’t Emre took him by the waist. And Emre’s face was now probably a mirror of Philippe’s; the whole range of confused, and not entirely sure what was going on until his neck clicked around again- this was a dangerous night for the tendons in that area- to see Dejan marshalling him away.

“What,” Philippe croaked, resorting to more of a cling than a hold on Emre.

Dejan, seeing the question, and obviously not seeing Emre, gesticulated wildly in the direction of the dancefloor. “Come on!” he said, gleefully.

Philippe was so frustrated- or, at least he was telling himself that that was the emotion- that his grip on Emre slipped, and Emre was already out of sight by the time Philippe realised that he was thoroughly lost in the crowd.

He internally wailed every curse word in his vocabulary. Angrily.

_What is this! What is he doing! What is going on!_

_Emre!_

He tugged his arm free from Dejan’s grasp, twisting it a little bit to release it and feeling instantly bad when Dejan looked… well, properly injured.

“Sorry,” Philippe apologised, yelling. “But I can’t dance with you. Eh, sorry. Like really, sorry. But _no_.”

Dejan was frowning now and cradling his arm- Philippe really had contorted it in his panic- but Philippe didn’t really hang around for much longer to find out, ducking back through and around people until he ran straight into one of Emre’s friends from earlier. Straight into him enough to knock them both sideways.

“Um,” he said, regaining his balance by gripping an arm. “Hi? Joe, right?” he offered, when Joe looked somewhere between laughing and confused.

“Are you… okay?” Joe offered, holding down Philippe’s other arm to steady him. “You look spooked.”

“Oh,” Philippe said, lightly and all too fake-ly. “I’m _fine_ , have you seen Emre?”

Joe frowned.

“Emre… went home? About a minute ago,” And when Philippe obviously looked puzzled: “I thought he went home with you, actually.”

“No,” Philippe said, fretting. “He didn’t. Did he say why?”

Joe was looking more and more surprised. Which was saying something; given that he had just been hit head-on by Philippe. “No, actually,” he wrinkled his nose. “But we do have to go to work tomorrow.”

He didn’t sound convinced. And Philippe was a long way from being convinced.

_What did I do? But he doesn’t_ know _Dejan?_

_What did I_ do?

“You don’t look okay,” Joe said, “do you need me to help you get a taxi? If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think it has anything to do with you.” He patted Philippe heartily on the back, and give him a winning smile.

Philippe couldn’t quite shake the feeling, though, that he had somehow, somewhere, gone very wrong.

_He’ll be in tomorrow morning though_ , he decided, in his taxi. _Emre will come to the shop tomorrow morning, like he always does, and especially when I think I’ve fucked up. I’ll see him in the morning_.

* * *

 

 

Emre didn’t come to the shop the next day.

* * *

 

 

He wasn’t there the day after, although Philippe would have been the last to know- curled up in bed on his day off, hugging his phone close to him.

Jordan had promised to call if Emre came by. Jordan had _promised_.

* * *

 

 

 

The third day didn’t bring Emre. But another very interesting visitor came through the door instead.

Dejan looked nervous, hovering just inside and fidgeting; not looking like he was willing to come up to the counter anytime soon.

Philippe felt an elbow in his back.

“Go and talk to him,” Jordan said, lowly; twitching his head.

“I don’t want to,” Philippe said, in a small voice. _Not to_ him _, anyway._

Jordan sighed, and Philippe was sure there was an accompanying eye-roll out of his line of vision.

“Whatever. Remind me to stop helping you solve your problems.”

Philippe was more than a little hurt by that, and went back to his job- glancing up every now and again to see Dejan still hovering by the door, looking nervous on a pre-bungee-jump level.

In the end, Dejan must have decided to put himself out of his own misery because Philippe looked to find him standing right in front of him.

“Oh, hey,” he said, slightly startled, still mildly disappointed that Dejan had now replaced Emre as his sort-of stalker.

“Hi,” Dejan began, then stopped. Then rubbed at his temples, like he had the worst headache of his life. “I just… wanted to say sorry, for my behaviour the other night.”

“It’s alright.” Philippe had more pressing issues, if he was being honest.

Dejan swallowed. Phillippe wondered if he was imagining things, or were those sweat beads that were gathering at Dejan’s temple?

“I’m really,” he continued, “ _very_ sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin your night like I did, I just... drank too much, and got a, um, bit excited when I ran in to you. I didn’t even realise that you maybe _didn’t_ want that kind of attention.” He ran his fingers back through his hair. Philippe remembered previously wanting to do something similar to it. Now that he thought about it, though, Dejan’s hair did look a bit greasy. “Until I woke up the day before yesterday, with a raging hangover. God, I am sorry. Man, your boyfriend also looked pissed- tell him that I’m sorry too.”

Philippe didn’t even bother to correct him.

“It’s okay,” he assured, and he liked to think, rather smoothly. “Don’t worry about it.”

Dejan looked like he was about to say something else, but then stopped. And suddenly, he looked relieved. “It is?” he said, completely deflating.

“Yeah,” Philippe said, and kind of lied, “I mean it.”

Dejan’s shoulders had dropped so far that he appeared half of his initial size. “Thanks, buddy,” he said, sighing. “I really am sorry.”

“Can I get you anything?” Jordan interrupted, coolly. Philippe bit back the urge to kick him.

“Oh,” Dejan said, startled. “Oh no. Oh no, it’s fine. I just wanted to- uh,” he looked at Philippe for help. Philippe wasn’t sure why, given that for all their previous interactions, Philippe had been a total mess.

Apart from the night in the club, though- when he’d turned Dejan down he’d been pretty direct. Only Philippe hadn’t really been considering Dejan’s feelings, then. He had been mostly concerned about getting back to Emre.

Honestly: he was still really, _really_ concerned about getting back to Emre. He felt the ghost of Emre’s hand press against his back, and he shivered into an overwhelming wave of melancholy- seemingly, the order of things this week.

Dejan was now looking from Philippe, to Jordan, and back to Philippe. Philippe saw his neck pulse when he swallowed.

“I’m fine,” he said, hesitantly. “I just wanted to talk to Philippe.” He was glancing at Philippe, he could tell, but Philippe had already taken the precautionary measure of looking away- out the window at the front of the shop, with extreme interest.

He only shifted his gaze when the door had closed behind Dejan, and in truth, he felt immediately bad about it and just about refrained from running after him and apologising. It was probably the harshest Philippe had ever been to anyone in his life.

And there it was: if he’d wanted Dejan, who he had fretted over and lost sleep about and really, really crushed on- had that been his chance? This news probably should have upset him more.

“What was _that_ about?” Jordan asked.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Philippe shot back, hotly. “I thought you weren’t helping me solve my problems anymore.”

Jordan looked at him for a long moment, and then he narrowed his eyes. “Fine,” he declared. Then, “what are you doing”, rather tiredly.

Philippe ignored him, and finished making the espresso. He dropped one sugar in it, and manoeuvred around the end of the counter.

Adam, tucked away with his laptop in one corner, was now clearly trying to pretend that he hadn’t been eavesdropping on everything that had just happened.

“Oh,” he said, in feigned surprise, when Philippe sat down and pushed the cup towards him. “Hello?” he rested his head on his hands and raised one eyebrow at Philippe. “What did I do to deserve this?”

“I need your help,” Philippe explained, carefully leaning back in his seat. Since Adam was such a big fan of unsolicited advice, why not try him out when Philippe actually needed guidance?

Adam lifted the cup to his lips and sipped. “Mmmmm. Okay,” he offered, sucking on his lip. “Sure.” He nodded, waiting, his face partially lit-up light blue from the reflection of his laptop screen.

Philippe bit the inside of his cheek, unsure of where to start. He hadn’t explained really to Jordan or Adam why Emre hadn’t been around, mostly because he knew their first question would be _why_ , and Philippe wasn’t even entirely sure himself. He slowly let his leg swing from where his knee hinged on the edge of his seat. It was sort of soothing.

“Let me hazard a guess,” Adam said, gently. He nodded back at the door. “This isn’t about Dejan. This has something to do with Emre.”

“I haven’t seen him in a while,” Philippe agreed. “I think we fell out.” _I am craving him. Help._

Adam raised both eyebrows now.

“You _think_ you fell out?” he enquired. “Either you did or you didn’t.”

“I honestly,” Philippe said, “don’t know.”

Adam’s expressive eyebrows now drew together in thought. “You don’t know? You mean: you guys didn’t have an actual row.”

“Right,” Philippe agreed. “He’s avoiding me. I think.”

There. He’d said it. His stomach somersaulted, because: not Emre. He couldn’t give up Emre. Not now.

Adam’s lips formed a silent _oh_.

Philippe felt truly miserable, sinking lower into his seat- gloom chewing up his thoughts.

“Well, that sucks,” Adam said, and he stared thoughtfully at Philippe for a minute. “Have you tried talking to him?”

It was the obvious remedy to the problem, alright.

“Um”, Philippe said, by way of admitting: _no._

“Well, then- you should talk to him,” Adam said, looking like he was trying, _really trying_ , not to smile. And it was very annoying.

Philippe hesitated, his leg swaying to a stop. “How?” he wondered, out loud.

Adam blinked at him. Adam blinked at him again. Then, he closed his laptop.

“Call him,” he started, incredulously. “And say you want to hang out.”

“But,” Philippe started, then stopped. How had it come to this? How had Philippe, never, ever called Emre to start something?

What if this was a sign? What if Emre said no? Because Emre was done with him, because Philippe had someone been more of a chaotic idiot than normal on Wednesday and Emre had had enough? What if he’d freaked out when he’d figured that Philippe maybe liked him, quite a lot?

“Bullshit,” Adam said, when Philippe relayed these thoughts to him. “Call him.”

Philippe seriously contemplated it. “I’ll text him now,” he said, reaching back in to his pocket for his recently patched-up phone.

“No,” Adam said, flattening his hand on the table for emphasis. “ _Call him_.”

“Okay,” Philippe agreed meekly.

“And don’t,” Adam sighed, and rubbed between his eyes. “Say something like, ‘we need to talk’,” Philippe paused, because that had sort of been what had been ready to say, “Just say you haven’t seen him in a while and you should hang out. And that you’re clocking off early this evening, if he’s around.”

Philippe dialled, and pressed his phone to his ear. “How do _you_ know I finish early today?” he mouthed, as Adam shrugged. As the dial tone every increasingly shook his ear drum, he realised that Adam was still looking at him from across the table, and he felt his face light up like bonfire.

He didn’t want to talk to Emre in front of anyone. He, quite decidedly, wanted Emre all to himself.

He got slowly to his feet, nodded his thanks at Adam, and walked out the front of the shop.

He sat down on the bench- the one he had been planning to let Emre find him on that first day- and twisted his apron under his one remaining hand. The edge of the Home button on his phone dug deep into his cheek.

_Pick up Emre. Go on, pick up._

Emre picked up.

“Hey,” Philippe blurted out, relieved.

“Hi,” Emre said back, softly. When he said it, Philippe was suddenly inches from him again: in the dark with a wave of noise, and pressed so close, and Emre’s shirt was bunched between his fists. And he couldn’t breathe.

“I haven’t seen you,” Philippe managed, his throat rattling as he attempted to draw breath. “In a while.”

“Yeah,” Emre agreed, still quietly.

“I finish at five today,” Philippe tried again. “If you want to meet at the park.” Philippe wondered where he was hiding out at work to take the call. The bathroom? It would explain the whispering. “I, uh, I can’t remember when you finish work.”

Emre made a sudden coughing noise.

“Philippe,” he said, gently, and Philippe felt: almost with pity. “It’s Saturday.”

Oh boy. This whole series of events over the last few weeks had thrown Philippe a bit. But this was a whole other level. He punched himself in the leg, furious.

“I forgot,” he said, eventually, clenching his teeth to even out the pain.

Emre was silent for a while. Philippe belatedly realised that he’d dived right in- if he’d been a normal person, he could have asked how Emre was first, or something.

“Okay,” Emre said. “If you want.”

“I want,” Philippe said, with such startling insistence that even he had to do a double take.

“The big elm tree beside the lake,” Emre said. “After five.”

“Yeah,” Philippe said, finally managing to inhale. Would it be totally and inappropriately weird to profess how much he missed Emre, right now? But he did. He missed his stupid, high-pitched giggling and that look he gave Philippe when Philippe was losing his head over something: with his eyes soft and a sense of easy patience. He missed even knowing that Emre was _there_. And he definitely missed kissing him. “After five.”

* * *

 

 

Philippe hadn’t really realised how many elm trees _were_ around the lake until that afternoon. He had counted at least six, and had started to fret; colourfully cursing Emre’s ability to give exact directions before he saw Emre sitting in the shadows- in the same combination of loose shirt and tight jeans that seemed to make up his wardrobe, his knees drawn in to his chest- and he retracted it all.

“Hey,” Philippe declared, halting awkwardly in front of him.

Emre slowly lifted his eyes from surveying the sprawling expanse of the lake, squinting in Philippe’s direction with his brows wrinkled together and his lips pursed tight, looking unsurprised and also vaguely indifferent about Philippe being there. He blinked up at him slowly, like that counted as a reply.

“Uh,” Philippe continued. He held up the carton take-away cup holder, his peace offering.

Emre’s eyes squinted smaller, and he blinked at him again.

He looked stupidly good, though, Philippe thought. Distain really drew out his cheekbones. However, his brain briefly transported him back to Emre’s expression when Philippe had agreed to meet his friends; and weighing up the two Philippe decided that the latter was infinitely better.

_Oh god,_ he sat down beside Emre, turning slightly to face him, _I really hope he doesn’t hate me._

He manoeuvred, prised Emre’s drink from the holder, having to jiggle it slightly before finally freeing it, accidentally making hot, foamy coffee spurt out of the top of the closed lid and run down his hand. The searing feeling faded fast though, and he held it out to Emre.

Emre looked at the cup. Emre looked at Philippe. His eyes were still too bunched up for Philippe to make out what he was thinking, not that Philippe had ever been able to make out what Emre was thinking.

Carefully, Emre reached across his body and let his palm curl around the Styrofoam, too. For a long second, they both held it, and paused. Philippe could feel the warm from Emre’s skin so close to his. He let go, lifting his arm up to suck at his skin and bring the coffee dribbling steadily down to his elbow to a halt. When he looked up, Emre glanced away quickly- back out over the water.

“Hummm,” Philippe cleared his throat as loud as he could. _‘Thank you’ would be nice. What an ungrateful sod._ He lifted himself, one hand balanced on the grass, and edged closer- close enough to nudge Emre’s calf with his knee.

_Come_ on. _You can’t ignore me. I’m right here!_

“Oh my God,” he blurted, after several more seconds of him glaring at Emre and Emre glaring at anything that wasn’t Philippe. “What did I _do?_ ”

Just as Philippe was cursing himself for his total, absolute lack of resolve in a stalemate Emre _finally_ looked at him, his thumb that had been tracing the lid of his coffee slowing to a stop. His face relaxed somewhat, lifting his brows and his eyes were butter-coloured in the harsh summer daylight, his pupils so small they were barely there.

“What did _you_ do?” he said, from low in his throat. It didn’t sound accusatory. Emre seemed genuinely startled.

“What am I meant to think?” Philippe asked, weakly- because Emre had never looked at him that intensely and it was like being punched in the ribs. “Apart from that you’re mad at me?”

Emre’s eyebrows now reached his hairline, his mouth slack. “That’s not it,” he said. “That’s not it _at all_.”

“Help me out, then,” Philippe implored. “What out reason could you have for…” Emre continued to look totally flabbergasted, and comprehension slowly dawned that Philippe was running down the wrong road with this altogether, “… _avoiding_ me?” He swallowed hard and bit his lip still where it quivered, nervous.

“I’m trying to figure out,” Emre started, slowly, his voice straining to a halt. “How to tell you.”

Philippe’s heartbeat slowed to a stop.

Emre turned away again- drawing Philippe’s eyes down from his, down to his lips, along his jaw- finishing on the twist of his neck and how the skin pulled from his shoulder and how much Philippe wanted to suddenly press his mouth against the stretch.

His heart very rapidly started again.

“How to tell me what,” he choked.

Emre was tracing the lid of his drink again. “About the coffee”, he said eventually.

“You what,” Philippe said, out loud. What about the coffee? Was it bad? Then why did he keep coming back for it?

_I bet he doesn’t even drink coffee_ , he decided.

“What about it?” he tried, more eloquently, after several seconds.

Emre let out a long, groany, sigh and pressed his forehead into his knees, long enough for Philippe to have opened his mouth, about to question it why Emre, who he had imagined to be the last person on earth to be frustrated, was now frustrated.

Emre looked furious with himself, and when he blinked his gaze lifted skywards, like a plea for help. “The day you gave me your number,” he said, eventually, “I know you meant to give it to someone else.” He shifted, looking uncomfortable. “I know you meant to give it to that other guy. The one who was all grabby at you the other night.”

“Dejan,” Philippe realised. Then what Emre was actually saying finally hit him. “Wait. _What?_ ”

“I don’t actually know him,” Emre explained, “we must work in the same building or something, though. I’d seen him before. I mean, before I went to your shop. And I’m not blind- I saw you making eyes at him.” He sighed. “You were just making these _eyes_ at him.”

“How is this _my_ fault?” Philippe demanded.

Emre looked to the sky again.

“I don’t know whose fault it is,” he said, exhaling. “But I just ended up with your number on my cup. I didn’t know who it belonged to, if I’m honest it did take me a couple of seconds to figure that out. I thought I’d picked up mine, I _promise_ ,” he ran one hand down his face, “I promise, I was sure I had my order. I didn’t do it on purpose. I should have gone straight back in, and handed it back.”

There was silence.

“But?” Philippe offered.

“But,” Emre agreed. “After seeing you, I mean just _seeing_ you-“

And without Philippe seeing Emre. Goddamn Dejan Blinkered Vision.

“- I can’t explain it,” Emre said, his voice tight. “I have spent the last few days just trying to find the words to explain it, without it being weird or creepy. But I didn’t think the guy took you seriously. I didn’t think he saw you as any more than some cog in his routine. I didn’t want to see you hurt. I just- I wanted to save you from yourself. So I took the cup home with me.”

“Oh,” Philippe said, meekly.

Ouch, though. Someone wanted to save Philippe from himself. Great. Like he didn’t have enough of that already.

“I hadn’t thought it through enough at that point. I’d seen you _one_ time, and I’ll admit- instant protectiveness? It was freaking me out.” Philippe tried to imagine Emre freaking out, but failed. “It was only later I thought that if I didn’t call either, that it would hurt you too. I knew you’d seen me. So I called.” Emre grimaced. “I thought: one date. I’m leaving at the end of the summer, and I don’t have to see him again if I don’t want to.” He combed it hair back across the top of his head with his fingers, smoothing it flat at the ends with his palm. “I don’t really know what I was expecting. I didn’t think you’d be… you.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Philippe said, crossly.

For the first time since Philippe had sat down, for the first time in what felt like months, years- Emre smiled: a twisty, half-smile that made one cheek peak and grow round, and when his eyes suddenly met Philippe’s they were simmering, the different shades of brown flickering like candles in a shrine.

“I couldn’t have imagined,” he said, on a murmur, “what you would be like. Just: everything about how you spoke and… And that I would just need _more_ of it. That one date had barely even started and I wanted to see you again.”

Philippe shook his head, shook himself free of Emre’s brilliance. He was pretty sure that he was still mad at him. _Pretty_ sure. That, at least, had been the dominant emotion before Emre start making soppy declarations. Which could not possibly be true: because Emre was an actual masterpiece of Adonis, and Philippe was a short, clumsy, total, mess; so this was obviously an elaborate scam. Or something.

“Clearly,” he attempted to say drily. “Because then you went straight ahead, and stood me up.”

Emre snorted. “No,” he explained. “I was held up at work.”

“And you told me about it when you were already late.”

Emre was shaking his head, though, before Philippe had even finished his sentence. “I wanted to make it. I wanted to be there, so I held out to see if I could get away. After I called you, everyone in the office suddenly noticed that it bothered me.” A pink tinge, that Philippe had earlier decided he was imagining, grew and spread down the high arch of Emre’s cheek. “In the morning, they made me go and see you.”

“Stalk me.”

The flash of teeth behind Emre’s smile was so fast, Philippe could have dreamed it. “You asked _me_ out that time.”

Damn. Philippe had really walked himself into that one.

“I didn’t try and kiss you before that,” Emre was continuing, and definitely the most words Philippe had ever consecutively heard him say, “’cause I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t be sure that you weren’t just like that with everyone, and the whole world wasn’t totally… you know. Enamoured. Charmed. Whatever. By you.”

_Stop,_ Philippe tried to say, _stop, stop, stop!_ _I don’t believe you,_ nobody _feels like that about me;_ but the words caught in the back of his throat, and he looked down at his own cup now, shifting in the silence- seemingly awkward for him, but obviously not awkward enough for Emre who was _still going_.

“On Wednesday, I thought- shit, Philippe: I saw the guy with his hands all over you and I panicked.”

Philippe swallowed. “Great,” he said, as softly sarcastic as possible. “That time I kind of needed rescuing. I was _with you_.” He shuddered a bit, because there was, of course, the specific evidence concerning why this had been blatantly obvious. Then he wriggled on the grass, to hide it. “I was definitely there with you.”

“I’m not proud of it.” Emre was chewing on his bottom lip, grazing it with the tips of his very white teeth and leaving the edge tinged red. Philippe was leaning towards him before he could stop himself- Emre’s shoulders had scrunched smaller as he’d tucked further into himself, and Philippe wanted to lift his head, wanted to see the light reflect in his eyes again. “I remembered how you looked at him when you’d talked in the shop, and I couldn’t remember if you’d ever looked at me like that. It was really stupid. I’ve known you a week.”

Philippe’s hand reached Emre’s shoulder, and Emre froze solid under the tips of his fingers.

“Go on,” Philippe whispered, his eyes drawn to the twist of skin at Emre’s neck when he looked up, with immeasurable caution.

“And,” Emre replied, his voice equally low, “I didn’t know what you wanted, and I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you all this since. So you could make up your own mind.”

Philippe’s hand- now quite acting outside of the control of his motor function- flattened against Emre’s chest now. He saw it drag along the dip of Emre’s loose collar, and push it flat against his skin- his skin that was so warm against Philippe’s. It pulsed under the tips of his middle and index finger, now slow-motion spider-walking up the folded edge of cotton.

Emre swallowed, and it made his neck vibrate under Philippe’s hand when he reached and curled to sit comfortably around it.

_Like there was ever a choice,_ he wanted to say- quite incapable of speech with Emre’s eyes that deep in his. _Why else would I be here?_ He could feel Emre’s breath on his lips, felt his nose nudge right up close, and his breath hitched in place of speech- woozy like he’d been drugged, caught in Emre’s aura like it was the only thing he needed.

“I don’t know how to explain myself with less words,” Emre breathed.

“Funny. I do,” Philippe replied, pressing his fingers into Emre’s skin and pitching forwards.

If every time they had kissed before this had been somehow new and confusing then this was new but comforting; like home, an extension of an embrace, of their conversation, _better_. Emre’s lips were careful and Philippe wanted more of him, so he moved closer now, pulling himself onto his knees; and he took Emre’s face in both of his hands.

He only stopped when he finally felt Emre’s touch- just the clutch of fingers over his ribs, pulling him close- but a confirmation.

“Okay?” he tried to say calmly, but it came out really throatily when he half-gasped, right into Emre’s still open lips.

“Yeah,” Emre said, his lips parting properly into an open-mouth grin- beaming and huge like Philippe had never seen grace his features before. “Okay.”

Philippe felt himself breathe out, felt himself cough up laughter when Emre twisted his kiss into his cheek now, when his arm ran the whole way around Philippe’s back and held him as close as he could. He was still grinning as he balanced his cup on the grass beside him, and Philippe wedged himself firmly under his shoulder, urged by fingers squeezing tight to his arm.

The smell of fabric softener filled his nose as he nudged his face against the side of Emre’s chest, trying to flatten his body as close as possible to him.

So, Philippe, for the first time in probably his entire life, hadn’t done anything wrong. Emre wasn’t mad at him, or frustrated with him, or anything like that. Emre’s now coffee-free hand was around his cheek now, lifting Philippe’s face so it was more receptive to kisses on his temple, on his cheek, and finally, again, his mouth.

“I’m glad you came when I called,” Philippe managed to choke out, eventually.

“I’m glad too,” Emre murmured. “If I knew I would be getting this kind of reception I would have called before- _ow_!” he complained, when Philippe thumped his chest with his closed fist, in a sudden moment of leftover anger.

“Idiot,” he buried the words in Emre’s cheek. “How could you _not_ bloody know.”

Instead of replying, Emre rested, what Philippe suspected to be, his chin on the crown of his head.

Philippe breathed. Philippe heard Emre breathe, heard the leaves rustle in the tree above their heads, heard water lap against the shore nearby, heard ducks, heard children gleefully screaming on what felt like some distant horizon.

And Philippe Coutinho did not know himself. He did not know how he could have fallen into this extraordinary pool of luck. He did not know what had possessed him to kiss Emre,  finally reaching for what he wanted.

He managed to open one eye a crack, to pull himself out of his Emre-induced coma, and reach for the rip in Emre’s jeans, just above his knee.

“It’s weird,” he started, curling his fingers in under the denim, “I mean, _is_ it weird. It probably is. I don’t know. I missed you.” He breathed. “Like a lot.” Another breath. “Like, somehow, over about three days.” A pause. “There.”

“Not weird,” Emre murmured into his hair. Then, “never change.”

* * *

 

 

“So,” Jordan said. “How serious is it?”

“How serious is what?” Philippe was waving away the steam from the door of the just-finished dishwasher and he coughed.

Jordan tilted his head in the direction of the corner of the shop. “ _That_ ,” he said, indicating Emre and Adam huddled in front of the computer.

“It must true love if Adam is showing someone his work,” Philippe tried to joke. “Ow!” Every time, he made the same mistake of touching the cups far too soon, and searing his hand off them. “Now look what you made me do.” He shook his fingers out, to get the blood into them. And hopefully shake the pain _out_ of them.

Jordan snorted and jerked his head in what was clearly dissent. “You know what I mean.”

“No I don’t,” Philippe quipped. “I don’t know what you mean by serious. And instead of standing there, can you help me with this?”

Jordan made absolutely no move to help him, like Philippe knew he wouldn’t; but Philippe would continue to ask four times a day anyway.

“I just,” Jordan said, a couple of seconds after Philippe had re-filled the cutlery drawer. “Was making conversation.”

“I don’t know,” Philippe replied, agitated. “How serious it is.” Jordan was such a liar. Making conversation? This was the closest thing to cross-examination Philippe had ever encountered.

Jordan coughed, and it sounded suspicious enough to have been a cover up for a laugh, so Philippe placed his hands squarely on his hips.

“What,” he said to him.

“So,” Jordan said, smugly, now leaning back against the counter, “you two haven’t had sex.”

Philippe’s jaw dropped. “That is _none_ ,” he declared, shrilly enough to get the attention of everyone else in the shop, “of your _business_.”

Jordan rolled his eyes in a supremely annoying, knowing, fashion.

“It isn’t,” Philippe continued to protest. “And, like, what year is it. Like it even _matters._ ” He found himself waving his arms in the air. Not conspicuous, not conspicuous at all.

_Don’t look at Emre. Do_ not _look at Emre. If you look at Emre, Emre will know that this is about him_.

Jordan shrugged. “Doesn’t it.”

“ _No_ ,” Philippe shrieked.

“Keep telling yourself that,” Jordan said, with a wry smile. “Pass me that cup you just took out.”

Philippe told himself that there had been no window for that. He really did.

He was lying to himself. _Of course_ he was. Ever since that really nice, wonderful, afternoon in the park- every day Emre came to see Philippe when his work finished and had waited until his shift ended, and then they’d walk to the bus stop and talk and make out and talk and kiss again, until Philippe had felt like bursting. He was really starting to wonder if the bus was actually steadily arriving earlier each day.

“No,” Philippe held the cup in question behind his back. “Shan’t. You didn’t say please.”

Why hadn’t he thought about where this would end up? Obviously. Silly, naïve Philippe; who had just been waiting for the weekend to come so he could finally spend more than two straight hours with Emre, and not just have conversations whenever they came up for air. Idiot, it wasn’t like it was the first time he’d ever done this.

It sure felt like it though, sometimes.

His defiance lasted about thirty seconds before he moved over to the counter beside Jordan.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

“I was joking,” Jordan tried, gently. “Don’t dwell on it too much, if you’re not ready for that.”

Philippe’s mouth had already opened to ask the question, but he reshaped it in line with the change of query.

“How will I know when I’m ready?” he asked, in a small voice.

Jordan blanched, and it was his turn- for once- to nearly drop something.

“Philippe,” he said, covering his mouth with his hand, “it doesn’t matter. Forget it. Emre’s a good guy- it’s not going to matter to him.”

“What if there’s been a sign,” Philippe croaked, sort of to himself, “what if there’s been _so many signs_ , and he’ll just get fed up with me? Oh _God_.”

“There is,” Jordan was distinctly smiling behind his hand, “no chance of him getting fed up with you. That, I thought, was obvious.”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Philippe whined, gripping the counter.

“Really?” Jordan asked. “No urge to, I don’t know, jump him? I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. I can’t believe I just said that.”

Philippe frowned, already thinking. “No? I mean. Yes?”

Jordan covered his whole face with his hands now, and groaned. “Okay, I can’t do this. I’m going for a slash.” As he walked towards the door, out the back he called: “hold the fort, would you?”

* * *

 

 

“Shit,” Philippe said, to the large poster covering the bus schedule on the inside of the stop.

“Bus strike on the hottest day this summer?” Emre agreed. “Pretty shit.”

Philippe made a desperate noise, and turned his face into Emre’s arm, well-protected by his suit jacket. “Nuurggh. My parents are in the city today. _Now_ how am I meant to get home?”

“I can drive you,” Emre said, after a minute.

“You can _what_?” Philippe’s neck snapped up. “You have been letting me take the bus every day, and you can _what_?”

“You never asked,” Emre smiled down at him.

“ _Seriously_?” Philippe exclaimed, as Emre reached down to slide their fingers together so he could lead them away. “And you _never_ thought to mention this before?”

Emre shrugged.

Philippe swung their joint hands, a little jerkily, just to let Emre know he was annoyed.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be comfortable with it,” Emre explained, after ten minutes of silence. Except, it wasn’t really silence with Emre. It was actually quite _nice_.

“I am comfortable with not paying the fiver a day for a bus ticket,” Philippe retorted. “Always. Hey, is this one yours?”

“Meaning, what?”

_How did we get here_ , he wondered, as he climbed into Emre’s car- a tidy little Opel; despite Philippe pre-deciding that Emre drove a rusty Chevvy truck like in an American romcom, and one probably containing at least one Fleetwood Mac CD. _When did it all become this easy? Just to be with him?_

Emre grinned at him, as he pulled off his blazer and stretched around the lay is across the back seat, clinking his keys into the ignition and startling the car to life. When his smile reached his eyes, something in Philippe’s chest fluttered and contorted like a trampoline, and he thought: _never mind. He can still do that._

“You’re going to have to tell me where to go,” Emre said carefully, and Philippe realised that he’d just been staring at him dreamily while they pulled out onto the road.

“Oh,” he said, jumping awake. “Uh, okay- so it’s straight down Main Street and up the hill.”

“Right,” Emre hummed. “Also.”

After several seconds, Philippe started to wonder if Emre wasn’t actually leaving room for him to probe. Like a test to see if he was actually listening, which he had clearly just failed.

“Also, what?”

“ _Also,_ ” Emre continued, “I was talking to Adam earlier.”

“Adam can talk,” Philippe agreed, uncertain. He wondered if he should be afraid of where this was going.

Emre sniffed, and obviously deciding that this was the wrong angle at which to approach the topic, asked: “have you ever read his stuff?”

“Ew,” Philippe couldn’t help himself. “No.”

“Why _ew_?”

“I mean he never lets us see it, so we just assume he’s either writing love poems or nothing at all. Next left,” he waved at the road.

Emre made a noise. “You’re pointing right, you know.”

“I meant right.”

Emre flicked on his indicator, and his smile began to spread across his face.

“Besides,” Philippe hoped to quickly move on from that, so the colour of his highly embarrassed face would go back to normal, and stat, “he guards that computer with his life- I’m really surprised that he let you near it at all.”

“You’re not wrong,” Emre said. “Adam writes detective novels.” Philippe just about had time to pause and think _wait, doesn’t that mean I got it_ completely _wrong?_ “About a detective, who spends most of his thinking time in a coffee shop.”

“So, they’re about Adam,” Philippe concluded. “Second left after this one, by the way.”

“Yeah,” Emre said, and Philippe suddenly recognised smug undertones to his smirk. “He solves his mysteries with the help of an, I quote, _sandy haired barista_ , and they have a pretty steamy romance. He writes under a pseudonym. You can look it up.”

Philippe felt his jaw go slack. “ _Jordan?”_ He tried to swallow, and choked, and then coughed. “Adam and _Jordan_?” he tried, unsure if he should now tend to his throat or rub at tears now forming in his eyes. “Are you _kidding_?”

“Why would I kid? Are you trying to tell me that you haven’t seen it?”

Philippe struggled to get his breath back for several more seconds. “They _hate_ each other,” he spluttered; really and truly struggling to wrap his head around the concept.

Emre snorted. “No they don’t. Why else would he be there all the time?”

“No _way_ are they-“

“They aren’t,” Emre interrupted, “Well. Not yet. I didn’t get the impression the feeling wasn’t mutual, though.”

Philippe buried his face in his hands. “Oh my _God_ ,” he moaned. Then, “Wait. Hold on- this is my street. Number fifty-seven. And Adam is going to _skin_ you when he finds out that you told me.”

Emre snorted. “ _Please_. He just told me not to tell anyone-“

“- _Exactly_ -“

“- and it’s not like you’re just _anyone._ Adam will understand that you’re more important to me than that.”

It could have been a combination of several things.

It could have been some combination of Emre’s words, or that at that moment before he turned into Philippe’s drive he pushed on the gearstick with no small amount of strength, right at Philippe’s thigh; or it could have been the arch of his neck and the noble hold of his chin when he lifted it to check his mirrors- but it was like Philippe had been knocked back three feet by a wave.

From the second Emre had stood in front of him, Philippe hadn’t exactly failed to recognise that Emre was beautiful, but it picked this moment to properly hit him. There wasn’t a single imperfection in the lines that his silhouette drew from his forehead to the base of his neck. His white shirt was slightly tighter where it bunched up against the muscles of his arms and the edges of his shoulders, and there was moisture gathering in the space where his top button was open at his collar from the heat of the afternoon.

What was to stop Philippe from reaching across the car and undoing the rest of them? Then: did the skin of Emre’s chest feel all that different to kiss than his lips?

And Emre’s hands, with their long fingers- how would he put them on Philippe’s skin, if Philippe asked him to?

Was this what Jordan had meant by Philippe wanting to jump him?

Emre had been examining the front of Philippe’s house through the windscreen, and so when he met Philippe’s eyes, he jumped.

“Are you alright?” he asked, as Philippe stared at him from all this way across the car; absolutely ravenous.

“Yeah,” Philippe breathed. He reached out and let his fingers touch softly off Emre’s tight wrist where it gripped the handbrake. Electricity roared through his nerves at the touch, making of all his hairs stand on end. “Would you like to come in?”


	6. Dating? Relationships? Boyfriends?

# 

Emre in Philippe’s kitchen still felt surreal.

Philippe could _feel_ himself staring as Emre pulled a chair up to the kitchen counter, slowly sliding up like he did it every day, glancing around Philippe’s kitchen with the distinct air of someone who could get used to being in it.

And Philippe was still recovering from whatever delivery of feelings had slammed into him in the car, so was rapidly trying to organise the intense torrent of thought suddenly drowning his brain.

Up until now, it had all been about how much Emre might like him. But now that he did - now that Philippe, was, definitely, so sure, that Emre liked him – he suddenly wondered what that meant. What this was all coming too. Extensive time in Philippe’s kitchen, it seemed, only scratched the surface. That was nice. That was certain. But there were a whole host of things that came with that as a consequence and Philippe really, truly, had no idea how to calm himself down about them.

 _Dating? Relationships?_ Boyfriends _?_

He turned around to the fridge quickly, hoping there would be something in it to start a conversation, and distract himself with.

 _Beer_.

They were his brother’s, undoubtedly, and Philippe would have to explain himself later. But this was an emergency.

“Thanks,” Emre said. His eyes had been roaming around the room, but when he took the beer they came back to Philippe, and he smiled. “You have a nice place.”

“It’s not mine,” Philippe said, struggling somewhere between being modest and dismissing the compliment altogether. “This is just the kitchen.”

Emre raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything. Then he frowned at the beer bottle instead. Specifically, the top, which was still firmly capped.

“Oh,” Philippe said. He reached out and prised it carefully from Emre’s hands, ignoring how his lips spread into that stupid grin. “I can fix that.” He shuffled over to the cutlery drawer, already exhausted from being simultaneously turned on and mortified. “Are you hungry?”

He _felt_ Emre shrug. “What are my options?”

“Toast,” Philippe said. His brain went the whole way through the list in his head of things that he could cook from scratch. It was pretty short. “Oven pizza.” He paused. “If we have any.”

He thought he could have made it to the fridge without looking at Emre. But he was wrong, and Emre was still sitting at the kitchen island and his head was still tilting into his smile. However, his nose had wrinkled a bit.

Philippe had spent enough time around Emre now to be able to take that hint.

“Fine,” he said. He lifted his hand from the freezer handle and into the air in surrender. Eventually, he praised the bottle opener from the back of the cutlery drawer.

The beers opened with a pretty satisfying hiss.

“Um,” he said, as he handed Emre’s back. “We can go out the back, if you want.”

“Sure,” Emre said, getting up. When he did he reached up and pulled another button loose from the top of his shirt- making Philippe lose his train of thought immediately, putting him right back inside Emre’s car and into the middle of that awkward lust-wave. Emre waited patiently from him at the back door onto the porch, but when Philippe’s hands slid a little too much on the lock, Philippe felt him shift beside him, into his space, and his hand run up his back to rest against his neck. It was vaguely cold- condensation from the beer bottle, Philippe realised.

“Are you alright?” Emre asked. Philippe was about to, stupidly, answer “no”, but didn’t get the time because Emre leaned down and kissed him instead. Philippe wondered if Emre had meant it to be reassuring, but he had undeniably completely misinterpreted the problem.

But Philippe couldn’t lie: it did help. Especially since it was a very soft kiss and it was _meant_ to be comforting, and in all their time spent at the bus stop in the last few days, Philippe hadn’t got too many of those. They hadn’t exactly been the focus of the exercise.

It was a while before something tickled in the back of his head, and a little longer before he realised it was the vague sensation of being watched. He opened one eye: to see Leandro, he older and most annoying brother, standing in the doorway from the hall to the kitchen, his mouth open and somewhere between slack from shock and grinning with delight.

Philippe spluttered and stepped away from Emre, out of the press of his hand against the back of his neck.

“Uh,” he said, still coughing, and wiping down his mouth- like that would somehow help. “ _Uhhhhm.”_

Where to look? Neither Emre nor Leandro seemed like a particularly good option. Instead, he opted for the floor and wished it would swallow him.

“I saw the car in the driveway,” Leandro started. Philippe could tell he was still gaping. “Mom and Dad wanted me to check on you anyway because they’re gonna be back late.” Philippe squeezed his eyes shut: _not cool, Leo- not cool, not cool,_ not. Cool. “Who is _that_?”

Philippe could feel Emre shaking a bit, and when he looked up from smothering his face into the palm of his hand, he found that Emre was doing some similar-level face smushing. Because he was _laughing._

It made Philippe want to hit him. It also made Philippe want to jump him just that little bit more, though.

“Shut up,” he informed him, as Emre leaned back against the doorway for support.

“ _Philippe_ ,” Leandro waved, over on the other side of the kitchen. He had momentarily been completely forgotten about as Philippe had basked in the splendour of Emre’s giggles.

“Sorry,” he said, and he wished he hadn’t just realised how smitten he’d looked. This was not a look his brother had ever seen on him. Philippe was only just getting used to it being a look that he was capable of giving. He elbowed Emre softly in the side. “This is my brother, Leandro,” he explained.

Emre raised an eyebrow – asking for permission – before he took several steps across the kitchen, switched his beer bottle to his other hand, and held the free one out. “Emre,” he said.

“He kept _you_ quiet,” Leandro replied, obviously still in a state of mild, but pleasant, shock. Philippe felt pretty pleased that he was still capable of inducing that.

“Right,” Emre said. They both looked suddenly back at Philippe, their hands just dropping out of their shake: Emre for help and Leandro accusative.

 _Oops_ , Philippe thought. Was he _meant_ to tell his family about Emre? But it had only been _weeks_ . He hadn’t even been really sure Emre took him seriously until a few _days_ ago.

“Are those _my_ beers?” Leandro asked suddenly.

So instead of saying anything Philippe turned around quickly, pulled the back door open and slipped outside. But because he just couldn’t do anything right, the outside of his foot misjudged the gap and caught on it, sending him stumbling out onto the porch.

Emre eventually joined him, sitting down beside him at the edge of the porch and shifting his body right up next to him. He was still warm, warmer than the decking they sat on which had been baked from hours in the sun.

“He’s gone,” Emre informed him, as Philippe swallowed his second far-too-large mouthful of beer in as many minutes.

“Oh my God,” Philippe croaked. “Oh my _God_.” _I can’t believe that just happened._

Emre snorted, and he tipped his head back when he lifted his beer to take another swing.

“It was funny,” he said, sniggering. Philippe still wouldn’t look up from where he’d hidden his face in his hands. His cheeks pounded against his palms. As a possible consequence, Emre nudged his knee off the edge of Philippe’s leg. The first time was gentle and probably meant to console him, however the second time practically shifted Philippe two inches over and was definitely meant to get a reaction.

Philippe groaned as mournfully as he could, considering it a reasonable response. Truthfully, Emre’s nonplussed reaction somewhat toned down how much of an idiot he felt. Toned it down to nothing, actually replacing it with an overwhelming sense of relief. Despite Philippe continuously and erratically freaking out, Emre had never actually minded. And, Philippe realised, Emre had never, ever acted like it had been a problem. Emre actually seemed to _like_ it.

Which just made this all worse, really, because Philippe became very aware of Emre’s heat and all the places he pressed into him, and Philippe’s cheeks had only just started to cool down, he didn’t need this.

Emre’s leg swung slowly beside him.

“Your brother’s nice,” he tried, and Philippe could already tell that this wasn’t the conversation Emre was intending to have. More of a starting point. “Have you,” he continued, “really not told them about me?”

“Why,” Philippe said, aware that his voice was still muffled by his hands, “was I meant to?”

There was a sudden, heavy pause.

“I don’t know,” Emre admitted, “I guess. I’m just asking. It’s because my grandmother and I talk about you all the time.”

That was enough to make Philippe’s neck snap up.

“All the time?” he echoed.

Emre was focusing very intently on the neck of his beer bottle.

“Not _all_ the time,” he said. He shifted a little further back from the edge of the porch.

 _He’s_ blushing, Philippe realised. The hinge on his jaw collapsed with awe. _He talks about me._

“Gran wants you around some time before the end of the summer,” Emre admitted finally. “Between me, and your gran, she’s heard a lot. Uh, the guys at work ask about you too sometimes. I guess.”

Philippe was not about to admit to how much he’d discussed Emre with Jordan and Adam, who in an odd kind of way, he realised, were some sort of substitute, summer work family.

“You _guess_.” Philippe couldn’t help himself. There was just too much adrenaline in his body.

Emre lifted his gaze from his beer bottle and was already grinning when he looked at Philippe.

“Shut up,” he said finally, but coupled with the ultimate brilliance of his smile, it came out the opposite of threatening. Rather fondly, actually.

“I’ll meet your gran,” Philippe said, finally. “I’d… like to.”

“You don’t have to tell anyone I exist,” Emre agreed. “If you don’t want to. It doesn’t matter to me that much.”

“It doesn’t?”

Emre shrugged. “I’m just surprised, I guess.”

“It’s just,” Philippe babbled, awkwardly, into the comfortable silence that followed. “ _After_ the summer.”

Emre’s swinging leg stopped. “What do you mean?”

Philippe tried to swallow his heart back from where it had leapt up his throat.

“Um,” he said, clearing his throat to disguise how the work croaked. “After the summer. When we go back to doing… stuff. I, uh,” he swallowed again, and just about stopped himself from spluttering when he chased it with beer. “I know it’s still… like a month away. But next week I’m hearing back about my college application, and, uh, _you’re_ gonna finish up your internship in a few weeks.”

Emre looked at him for a second, and then he frowned – Philippe saw him sucking on the inside of his lip, and realised that he was _confused._

“I mean – What I want to say is – “

“I know what you mean,” Emre said plainly. Then his face cracked, and he smiled so wide his ears lifted – Philippe felt his hand suddenly at his back, smoothing down the creases of Philippe’s t-shirt between his shoulders. “I _know_.”

“And?” Philippe said, as Emre’s arm looped around the back of his neck. It was reassuring, but not reassuring enough.

Emre shrugged, his arm winding slighter further around Philippe. “I’ve thought about it.”

“Thought _what_.”

Emre sniggered. “I finish up in a month and go back to the city. And _you’re_ going to get your college place, and I’ll see you there.”

Philippe paused. “I hadn’t thought about it,” he admitted, sheepishly. And now that he did, it seemed so stupidly straightforward. The guy wanted him to meet his _grandmother_ , for crying out loud.  

“Thanks,” Emre said, suddenly soft. “For this summer. I thought I’d be stuck in a boring suburb like a punishment. It hasn’t been like that with you, though. It hasn’t been like that at all.”

Philippe stretched his neck and took both himself and Emre by surprised when he kissed him. He backed up to apologise for all the teeth, but Emre laughed and tugged him back again.

This time it was much better. There was the welcome addition of Emre’s arm around his middle, and his shirt all clenched up in Philippe’s fist. Emre tasted vaguely sour, vaguely like the beers that they had completely forgotten about, but that quickly didn’t matter.

He felt Emre’s laugh at his mouth when he took hold of his hips, felt Emre’s fingers drag through the hair behind his ear, retracting it up to his crown.

_I’ll see you there._

Carefully, he stopped- his mouth and nose now filling with the sharp scent of the evening. Emre’s eyes were better than any sunset he’d ever watched.

“Is Leandro really gone?” Philippe murmured.

“Uh-huh,” Emre whispered, his forehead pressed tight to Philippe’s.

“Okay,” Philippe said, certain. Certain enough that he even pulled himself from his Emre cocoon when he got up.

He held out his hand.

“C’mon,” he said, “I’m gonna show you my room.”

* * *

 

“ _Hendo_ ,” Philippe moaned. “Come on. _You remember._ ”

Jordan frowned, looking at him from where he was squeezing the cap down on a takeaway cup.

“No,” he said, “when did you tell me?”

“He told you yesterday,” Adam said, from the other side of the counter, not looking up from his typing. Philippe paused, mid-way through writing an order down on a cup, his mind briefly flickering back to the fact that Adam wrote X-rated romances for a living while still looking the subject of them in the eye every day.

“Yeah,” Philippe said, recovering. Just about. “Yesterday. Anyway, too late because he’s gonna be here in a minute.”

Jordan frowned as he picked the next cup up from the line. “You definitely never mentioned that you were leaving at four today. Or I would have dragged Lucas in instead.”

“You’ll manage,” Philippe said. “You can always give Adam an apron, and he can take over from me.”

“What?” Adam yelped, looking up.

“No,” Jordan said, firmly.

Philippe pretended their reaction was why he was grinning at the two of them. _Don’t meddle,_ Emre had said. But, _what_? This wasn’t meddling.

“Anyway,” Philippe said, “as soon as Emre gets here, I’m gone.”

“Where are you going?” Adam asked in his nosiest voice, clearly in revenge. “Romantic weekend break?”

“No,” Philippe said, “his gran invited me over for tea. She was pretty strict about it being after _Countdown_ is on and before _The Weakest Link_ starts, so. That’s why I’m leaving in five minutes.”

Jordan looked puzzled. Adam looked delighted. Philippe went back to taking orders down on cups and smiling at customers, although now a little too widely for it to be a customer smile. And it got even wider when he saw Emre come in the door, his face even shinier than the midday sun reflecting off the windows.

It took Philippe exactly two seconds to pull the apron off, and then chuck it across the counter at Adam.

“See you guys tomorrow,” he said, skipping around the end of the counter, dodging – skidding – around the tables until he met Emre in the middle of the shop and launched himself at him.

* * *

 

 

 

* * *

 

Jordan sighed when the door closed behind them and turned back to his machine.

“Look at them. Stupid, puppy love. _Hand-holding._ ”

Adam snorted violently.

“Shut up, you,” Jordan said, handing him another coffee. “Or I really will get you back here to help out.”

“No,” Adam said. He pushed Philippe’s apron – and its suggestion – further down the counter away from him. He patted it slightly, though, so as not to offend. “ _You_ shut up,” he continued, scornfully. “Stop acting like it wasn’t even you who switched the drinks so Emre would pick up Dejan’s in the first place.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks guys!! This fic has been a fun ride, I've really really loved all the feedback I've got about it. Anything at all!!! that you'd like to say please comment, this fic basically survived on your thoughts of it (and your encouragement). Thanks everyone!
> 
>  
> 
> I'm looking for more prompts for these guys and if YOU can think of any I WANT TO HEAR (because I'm not even kidding this fic lives because of anyone who has told me that they liked it)! You can find me on my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lesbleusthroughandthrough)


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